Kevin Casey

Late Night, Late March

Against a sapphire snowbank, the gleaming eyes 
of a deer. And glad to see we’ve both survived 
the winter, I slow and hope it stands its ground 
or bounds away across the calicoed field. 

But pulled toward that form by my headlights, 
the shape changes, sharpens to nothing 
but a mailbox, branded with some stranger’s 
name in stickered letters across its flank, 
reflective decals staring in surprise.

Though, in fairness to that box -- poking 
from the snow like a green-headed crocus, 
listing on its grey, pressure-treated stem --

its winter was just as long, and when the plow 
would rumble through the night, sparks leaping out 
like stars before the weight of its terrible blade, 
it took the brunt of that grinding scythe, 
and could not bound away.


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Kevin Casey has contributed poems to recent editions of Grasslimb, Frostwriting, Words Dance, decomP, and other publications. He is a graduate of UMass, Amherst and the University of Connecticut, and his new chapbook “The wind considers everything –” was recently published by Flutter Press, and another from Red Dashboard is due out later this year.

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