FIRST PLACE, TRADITIONAL FORMS:

TO IOWA IN MY ARMS

Ochre-outlined, ghost-quiet silhouettes
creep out of five a.m. fog on cat feet.
At rakish angles, farms stand statuette
against the sky; bedtime stars obsolete.

By noon, sun-scorched, jaundiced grass slices soles
of barefoot children who run through sprinklers.
Oak leaves shatter tree knots like buttonholes
as overhead clouds make sunbeams twinkle.

Those late, lethargic August twilight nights,
when the heat seeps into rocking-chair bones
is when my breath finally slows and sight
dims to a cracked hue; Iowan cornerstones.

And my finger maps your skin as you sleep,
connecting summer freckles on your cheeks.

Erik Trilk
Marion

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