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I am listening

to the sound of the stove

heating up


and butter coating

the thin

strings of the air


at night

in my kitchen.

when it feels


like EYES

make a panopticon

around me.


strange numbers

on the clock

for forbidding


my place in

the silence. I am



to put my hand

on the griddle.

to touch


what I am not




is a 2021 graduate of UB's Sociology department. She is planning to go to law school in Fall 2022 for public interest law. Hopefully, that works out.

Early morning rooms of late february


i see the trees rooted in ice

while the forest is thawed, is growing again

widening the membrane.

all dripping though the sound of sleeping birds is the sound of growing.

the deep hard silence of gone grass below

roughlike the smoky glass trees move in the kaleidoscope taking

its time.


the house is a hall under the floating

mountain grey. the house is milky linoleum and vapor

in the still bubble. in the early morning rooms of late

february is the guest

stayed too long and sleeping on the wanting

of every little thing waiting there.

all vulnerable to the soaking chill

to rise.



Never been to a real big island,

the proper ocean-type,

without a toll bridge. How far

does the sound of ocean waves go, on a windy day

on a still-air day? How many miles until

even the white noise of it becomes clear?

Or does it ever even go-

the crashes of it informing how the distant oak-leaf trembles.

I am a long way, on a bench, in Gasport,

and the sky is very gray.

I am looking at the boot-prints of Park Service

in the mud instead of sand.

How far away the ocean is- but I am on the island

of the continent. I am on the big-island of the Western Hemisphere,

on the medium-island of the park,

while my little dog snaps at the gnats that dare come near.

I think that I have already been there.


I think that in the noise of far away semi-trucks,

I can hear the ocean.

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