The States of Pennsylvania, Part 1

Ephrata, village of men, the cuddle of
waking early, summer
a warehouse in Hunting Park, some coffee and forklift, still cold.
waiting to pick up the truck behind blocks and chain links
Lancaster, the city and the semester make way
For Driving through

Over the hog auctions on AM radio
Past a piano store in Manheim
Past a promise to a hitcher in Lebanon
Past her on her wet lawn.
Of nuggets and jerky, smoke and coffee, engines left on
Back her into
dock sixteen at eight am into the white smoke of chicken parts and plastic, like nurses.


Hershey is brave.
Streets have ridiculous names.

The summer was warm, epic and Irish
Even in Germantown (under late April snow) even in Dutch Country
Behind the buggies
When it would light.

Some honey hanging sheets, some eyes at the check out
Register, Chime, blow up and away. Give me change.




Center City is a wet summer. The flags hang, it
Deepens their color. You
Walk your bike and its empty basket
From Chinatown to the fountain.

Wynnewood is long. Breaking the ice and talking around it, watching the eclipse or
Self-consciously breathing her air. It’s Hollywood. Playing by the pool. It’s Fairmont Park. And echoes.
There was an apple orchard once, where our Van Gogh-graffiti RIPs. It’s drinking her tea.

West river Drive is dense with whatever means, in every season
Oarsmean or lights, hopping freight trains, besides the kisses. Speeding
In an Olds 98 after the Continental

Bloomfield Avenue, Pittsburgh with which whose broke
A battle in the ice with trying to bike and trying to not be white (BJ and the Bear)

One From Berwyn to Llanfair
running drugs for the Pharmacy in those old cars
the plymouth, the Plymouth, or the dodge

One selling newspapers to the witches in a wagon.
Chris who’d steal the shovel of a crouched gardener and ditch it in the bushes.
Ms. Hanlon gave me a dime, her house smelled like Lysol, the ol skeltn
the green hornet.

I read A Brave New World entirely on Route 30.



Gettysburg is winter. After seeing the cold cabins we slid down the snowy hill.
Did we kite or just go to Dunkin Donuts , like on New Years? Like Bivalve.
Bare white stretches of shacks and shells.
Winter has many cemeteries. Many black and white.

The statues of the Governor’s school held my heart
Just exactly an end to pursuit
Juts out
On the floor on cushions, in long letters
Now artifacts
As we in fall do, returning to school.
A fuzzy sweater once intrigued me so.
That balance of stars.


There’s that same wind while walking to
any school, blinding sun and shade
the colors of
walking on tortillas and walking the bike
for horse chestnuts
Autumn medieval arms
Cold and Warm
On the ashes of some over

Flattering and flickering .