“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
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.


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,
through your house on a mission.

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

Timberline , Montana

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

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



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