Lincolns by the balcony,
a Buick toppled in the sculpture garden,
how many times do I have to tell you
there’s no one out there quite like me.
It’s no accident you echo like an owl
when you keep saying I’m in Yellowknife
and emailing I won’t hie back to Minot
till mallards have turned all-blue
in paint-polluted Four Bears Bay.
Well, as much as pistons rise and fall
from fires above themselves;
as much as sound and color get defined
as aimlessly deflected waves—
so too my love for you is random,
because it’s not my own creation.
- William C. Blome 2015
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as The Alembic, Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.