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Lindsay Daigle  





                  Madison Square Park without a Notebook



He’s writing unpublished Bible verses next to the fountain, craving nature. He’ll stay for

an hour, look over his shoulder a few times, flex his toes to prevent the tingles. He’s

writing temporary blues songs, humming Stevie Ray’s guitar. He points his chin higher

when the breeze picks up. He wishes for Portland air, rye nights with photographs. He

wants to drive to get places. He’s writing instructions for a stick shift manual, alternating

his feet along the edge of the fountain, moving his fist slightly backward into second

gear, imagining the V8 of a ’67 Camaro. He’s writing a roadmap made of concrete cracks.

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