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  • Little Sails
  • Noah Warren (bio)

We unlock the top and bottom locks of the apartment door and sink into chairs. Now— now we can be nothing more than a web between the nouns we care for.

But one evening we discovered a red-kerchiefed basket on the step heaped high with storms like black potatoes. The note beneath the basket read, “Thinking of you —Fall,” in hieroglyphics.

I find myself speaking for you. Whereas together do we talk at all?        Each morning I go watch the sun struggle up from under the river.

Runners dodge around me, so lithe that the air barely stirs.

Webs of red light spreading over the river: How can I grasp the force of that current until the wind begins to push against it and a fierce chop starts between the piles of the bridge, an agon—

You are paler than you know when you first wake up, but stately and firm-thighed, bending over the basin with its horsehair glaze,        and there’s a voice on the radio, a singer of our parents’ generation. [End Page 96]

How slowly you pivot, turning on me that eye that before coffee is a whale’s eye, closing, worldless. [End Page 97]

Noah Warren

noah warren was born in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. His work has appeared in Poetry and The Yale Review. He lives in New Orleans.



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pp. 96-97
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