Russell Shorto

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Poetry

No Tricks

Faintly, just what’s here.

Do fan blades hum or whir?

The washy angle of the light

you get on August 18, a day past

the day that told you summer

has remembered its death

is imminent. No tricks in light or weather.

No tricks in life, really, so that only,

ultimately, the tricksters are fooled.

So sit, alone, with some sounds.

Screeck, or reeech, so tiny you almost wonder,

the noise of bones getting older.

It takes a little sip of your breath,

doesn’t it? And then you say,

Ok, ok.