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who are americans

I saw a man in the dark.
So what? I said. A man
can lurk, can do his junk
there in the dark, and why
do I care what another man
does. I said I saw what
I saw—him and the hunting
gear in the morning, though
dark. He, like his hunting
gear, flashed stark and white
in the dark. He carried
the gear, its ungodly gleam.
That’s right, I said, a man
moved, flashed teeth. I saw
in the dark morning the dark.
A man camouflaged. Did he
not wish to be seen? I saw
him. In the dark and in
the morning. I said a thing
about ashes and dust. Why?
The ungodly flash. The gear
in the truck. The hunting
gear peeked above the bed,
readied, loaded. So I thought.
So I said that morning.
The truck in gear. It belonged
to the man. The morning rose
above the truck. I said that
morning I saw a man
in the early morning. Who
was he to be doing his junk
so early and in the dark?
I asked myself. I had not
spoken to the man. No,
not for a long time. He went
about his mornings and I went
about mine. I pulled the weeds
and often he sat on his porch,
talking loudly, practically shouting
into his cell phone. What
did he say? Deluge, the morning.
Or am I misremembering?
I saw him that morning.
Loading his truck. So what?
He was readied though still
it was dark. So what? I said
that morning and I meant it.
I said I saw him that morning
as dark as the dark. I said I saw,
and in the morning a man hunted.
A man readied, with coffee.
A man saw a man hauling
hunting gear in his truck.
I that man eyeing that man.
Was he dangerous? This man,
my neighbor? Was he weary?
A hunter in the dark. He
lifted several bags and dropped
them in his truck. I saw him.
In the dark, hunting gear—l
in the morning a man and
in the morning another man.
Picture
Wenceslaus Hollar. Hands and arms, 1644-52. Etching. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Brian Clifton has work in Pleiades, Guernica, The Cincinnati Review, Salt Hill, Colorado Review, The Journal, Beloit Poetry Journal, and other magazines. They are an avid record collector and curator of curiosities.
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