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Crossing Peachtree

                                    Thorpe Moeckel


Atlanta, even your magnolias
  smell like credit cards—

they are pretty, sure,
  they’re grand. Always

the whine of power blowers
  like a thing strangled,

its last cries. Hear
  the fountain tinkle

in the erotic shade
  of a Japanese maple.

Atlanta, the twinkle
  of your glass raids ill

in me. I’m trying to love you
  without getting in the car.


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