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I wrote you this poem flat on my back in an unmade bed

Listening to Blood on the Tracks and remembering as best as I can

The way Stephanie’s eyes looked in the 1:00 P.M. sun

The rough feel of the limestone banks along Mission Creek

The taste of metal in the air before the tornado came

And every other thing from the summer we spent going to Echo Cliff

You will never understand but I wish I could explain to you

Like how the fish circled slow in the pool at the base

And how when I jumped I didn’t die like I thought I wanted

I only clipped the rocks and plunged into the deep water

Where the alligator gar nibbled on the loose scraps of my torn shoulder

But gently, tugging me upward with their long mouths

Lifting me to the surface of the browngreen eddy

Where I floated for hours in pesticide foam

Then drove home

Gordon St. Raus

Gordon St. Raus peaked at 15 and is mostly held together by masking tape.

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