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M I D W E S T G L A C I E R They could not tell a plow from a pumpkin —from The British in Iowa, JACOB VAN DER ZEE, 1922 No pop left in the Koolpop , just ice and dust, a surprising climate said the exiled lord in Iowa, generations before the dust bowled. Now his great-great’s truck’s snout coughs climatechange , one that sucks, no matter what flavor the Kool-pop, how much dust there is to disappear in. I clear my throat, a dramatic sound that disturbs the gods here; motes flash. To get anywhere, I must appease, offer salve, pet the burnt orange and sooty 92 cows. They gasp, the ones not roasted or poisoned, carrion-proof for they have swallowed the dust. The problem devolves to the animals, splayed belly-first in the hopeless state, the pride of. I’m thinking who what where like a journalist, I’m still trying to see the glacier a-glitter, saved. 93 ...

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