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The aural chronicle of this town is written in

jukebox codes and corn miles, the wind


shifting with the harvest and in the bar back

entrance. Everyone here is young in a way,


proud of their coldness in another, and even

so, fixed into the deer bush with the shoes


we chose upon arrival. We were warned

and still we are convinced of our status


as inventors and as casualties. So many

of us left cities for this, bringing all


our versions of shakshuka (mine florid, too

dense). Our language is an interim one


of copays, porch swings, and the deadening

issue, by which, despite our fear of mortality,


we hope not to eventually relax into a lack

of feeling to wane the chasm. So we pay


tips we cannot afford, and acknowledge that

veterinarians are contracted by owners


of animals, not animals. A place that takes

crawling, transcribing, while the music, fire


pit seem to run all night. People here choose

this every day, knowing that in planned


suburbs and merciful cities, they gossip

less but read less also. We aim toward


the pleas of our childhood, to one day live in

a drawn house: big, crowded, ours for


the year. When we arrive, it will be earlier

in the morning than we ever woke all the years


here and we will concede then our self-

serving arguments, these griefs, were illusions.