by Justin Dodd

Moving south, the trees flicker, drawl: I search for trouble
through the windshield——along the creek beds. Boys range the
thickets, parks, rest stops——anonymous as oaks. No thoughts of disease or cure.

Telephone poles stampede: a cardinal scatter of lines——
Field mice snick through the blade-weed. Born for the claw
and the beak, they mime their passions, laugh between attacks.

In the expanse that is thought on expanse, there are only two
points: infinity, enclosure——the letter I mail him over and over.


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| Justin Dodd

Justin Dodd was born and raised in central Virginia. He graduated from both the University of Virginia and Columbia University. He moved to Manhattan in 2001 and now resides in Brooklyn with his four cats. Dodd is a book designer for HarperCollins and is trained as a photographer and sculptor. In his spare time Dodd roadies for his sister’s band Screen Vinyl Image and feeds the stray cats on his block. His work has appeared in Western Humanities Review , Fourteen Hills , Cerise Press , and Word for/Word among others.