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MEADOW WITH STANDING CROWS / Jane Miller After living in the sprouting desert there is nothing like the thought of sweet rain falling into a salty bay. Rather than bear the farthest touch, rather than be rain, having been neither of this world nor mad as it turns out, on and off during a year I saw someone had bitten your neck near the baby hair, and also your shoulder. Why does it show, is it of the heart, is it mindless, jealousy, where nothing moves in a field in a world, and it is morning? Even though you never came after me all Summer, nor called, not once when I said not to, like finally stepping over water after contemplation of it as sand, two crows in the moans of the salt water in my head answer for whom are we mysterious and suffering, for loveliness. The Missouri Review · 31 IMITATION AT TWILIGHT / Jane Miller In the Pacific Northwest where he probably never was or else never lived salmon spawn to die. Let them be. Well then what if I walk out to be alone & meet the only two people I owe in this town downtown? I'll be damned & I'll be what my girl tells me the number of damned breweries in & around La Crosse & Eau Claire Wisconsin make, enough drunks spawning enough lies for a truth, her birthplace. "It isn't that I can't, I refuse," overheard, like what are you doing one day where you know you started & the sky has all but cleared. Lightly out of a sadness I end up leafing my favorite poet's last book in a cold snap in June, the solstice for all that matters. The one madrone out front in twilight must have been at one time struck in a storm, half gray guts now & vermilion. 32 · The Missouri Review Its oily leaves lean south from this hillock. Which is about what I picture dead James Wright doing, the wanderer the saved bow to burning for his living days. Jane Miller The Missouri Review · 33 ...


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