Red Car in the Future

In the time of what I did I thought
this is the oldest tavern
I am alone and myself
and the goodness of that
and the grace of God
and the grace, really,
of really being understood.
I had a quake in my hands
and when they had done that—
cast fire, burned houses, said
five, five, give me prudence, and cut off
praying, and please return me once and for all
to my house again—the dreary marketplace
got quiet. We know us in unrevealing,
positioned, as we are, at the edge of outbreak
and God says no and not and I sit
still and all these things are against me.

Seth Landman lives in Denver, Colorado and is part of the Agnes Fox Press collective. Most recently, his poems have been in Skein, Jubilat, Boston Review, and VOLT. If there isn’t a basketball season this year, he’s going to be in serious trouble.

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