Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Three

Phoebe Reeves


Convicts, like mobile traffic cones in their orange jumpsuits, scour the spring grass for trash to gather in their deep garbage bags — the fast food wrappers, cigarettes, discarded cassette tapes you always see streaming their guts out in the breeze of passing cars. The goose splayed naked in the median, three days dead, wings curled half closed — or is it half open? — to shelter the brown- black body's caving in beside the rumble strip. As they move, they leave the bags full, tied, along the road, markers that divide the world I live in from the one I travel through.