Leveler Poetry Journal
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If you were sideways

in a crowded room, wagging rounded

glasses in small talk with other people.

If the math is off by some stain of

a fraction and I think you ghost,

stop almost following me.

If perhaps, you landed otherwise: cast

at different angles by slight measures

of the moon when it drops egg-smooth

past my window. I wondered if barely.

If your car, driving 65 miles per hour

east, while mine, driving 75 miles

per hour west, is divided by

just this, a cluttered line

of highway flowers.

If when I am trying on a cardigan

and the dressing room curtain slides

back to reveal that sudden cube

of shopping mall light: have you taken

your salmon-white receipt to muscle,

gently past, toward other things?

Sarah Edwards