Morning, Dawson Creek by Jeanette Lynes Rain, yes,              decanted while we slept. Street a smirched stream              white birches importune beside. Isn't there a dog somewhere needs walking? Where is everyone? Last night people wore rubber boots, bluegrass bands plucked songs of slain lovers. Where are they now? Where is everyone - the question of my country - often asked it myself in one form                               or other. Where is summer? - four syllables thrummed on drum-shaped tables in The Alaskan (among other places). I'll assume it's a real question -           this could be it, this could be                                    the sum of it.   Jeanette Lynes decants while you are sleeping.

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