“Butte, America” – Poems and photos by M.S. Evans

IceFloe Press

American Ego


We collect stories,
lithographic lies.
Postcards of fairgrounds,
ecstatic faces,
wildernesses of vintage evergreen
conquered without consequence.

Blithe knives,
we see ourselves through shot glasses,
a settler’s drunken dream.

Hair Pipe House


Sun-burnished blinds
sagging
from a sternum string,
make a hair pipe breastplate.

A declaration of worth
for the street.

Red Shadows


I search my neighborhood
for the radicals
who shot back,
blew up
the toothless union hall.

Drum my fingertips
on gingham-curtained kitchens.

Listen,

splintered wood,
soft brick.

Roll rough Yiddish,
like bone dice
against a home’s foundation.

Leave a calling card;
shiny pennies on the tracks.

Snow’s Secrecy


Snow arrives as a ghost,
tiptoes
through your house on a mission.

Lurks,
halfway up alleys,
huddles in doorways,
planning, scheming.

Timberline , Montana


The Rockies speak flotsam:
worn glass, lone marbles.
Sun-bleached
timber, dry as driftwood.

Sagebrush
waves, dust-green leaves,
dreams of bladderwrack’s beauty.

Butte


The…

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