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Cecilie Scott: Slowly, Slowly
Shane Seely: Seasonal
Gordon Van Ness: Remembering James Dickey
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PrintShane Seely, Seasonal

A night like this, the first

   warm night of spring, air

      a little cool against the skin,

neighbors raking the last of last

   fall’s leaves to the curb as dusk

      descends, or emerges, maybe, from inside

the evening, as though the evening

   imperceptibly reversed itself—

      a night like this should end desire.

A night like this should be the rest

   of what we’ve longed for, the untying

      of the knotted ropes desire drew

across our chests all winter, our need

   to hear a promise from the universe.

      Instead, desire multiplies

in me tonight, flying up

   into the newly heightened sky:

      that every night should be this

one, and I out in it, bathing

   for the first time in the

      amniotic air, that I might ride

the crest of this day, forever

   with the jubilant crickets, and the doves

      settling beneath the eaves with a throaty trill—

and rain comes then, fierce and sudden:

   I leave off grasping

and get wet.