Pete Lee


First came the tremors,
which lasted for ten years,

then the fumes finally killed him
and he shuddered to a halt.

They put him in a meat wagon.
Later, they installed him in a hearse

and drove him to Eternal Park,
overlooking the freeway.

And there he idles,
ignition off.


"Because the earth is spinning, the wind curves."
When I die of complications from having been

alive, if I must go slowly, I want my slow going to
signify something. I want there to be a given

I can fit all suffering and sorrow into: I, who
spent myself seeking one. And if I simply roll

over and disappear, I want the truth to bend
around the shadow of an object at rest.

Pete Lee lives with his wife Kelly in Ridgecrest, California, a small town in the Mojave Desert midway between Mount Whitney and Death Valley. His poetry has recently appeared online at Right Hand Pointing, Armada, Perigee, Unfettered Verse, and The Orange Room Review.

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