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I could stay here humming and amuse myself with the window. The lowing cows you cannot see. Another month I made up. Another asterisk. How I wrestle with the newspaper and other people's pillows. How I think of Albert, for he is like the names of the days. He walks the field kicking a potato, dreaming of casinos. His emissaries get lost in alleyways. His bridges crawl with teenagers. The phone rings, the sky tilts away. A whole migration of Albert under the office door. Albert is in the Otzal Alps. He sends postcards saying getting to Albert might be difficult. Airplanes fly over and that is useful. Albert is in the estuary. We sit on the porch sharing a swing. He is as loud as a rifle, over and over. He clears the fields of crows.
From Big Back Yard by Michael Teig, published by BOA Editions, Ltd. Copyright © 2003 by Michael Teig. Reprinted by permission of the author and publisher. All rights reserved.