Trey Moody

Three Poems


There was once a glacier
here. Now it has become
Nebraska. Which meant

“flat water.” Which tells
something of time,
thus something

of death. If we live
believing the sky meets
ground, somewhere—

where are we talking?
More importantly, we are still
talking about Nebraska.

From a Patio

brings a scraping:
animal this, skin swells
shoulders, shoulders. Moreover, I
sand brooms.

That Color Should Be Given Choice

I ache something
frost. That runners should molt
hate away. Sunshine quilts older
homes blue.

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