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Every stick-figure boy stuck under pews
smiles, from low angles, looking up. Kind

of evil, eagerly lost or found, the struck
boy slinks past the sacristy, under the glass,

out of earshot of the choir. Wrapped
in pale silk, shook foil flowers the cross,

iridescent, lemon-oiled. The boy
shrugs heaven and sky, soil to pole.

Yards down which he longs to roll: green
in summer, green in winter. Glory the Lord.

John W. Evans‘ poetry has appeared in Slate, The Missouri Review, Poetry Daily, Boston Review, The Southern Review, The Gettysburg Review, Poetry Northwest, Epoch, and elsewhere. He is the author of the chapbooks, No Season (FWQ, 2011) and Zugzwang (RockSaw, 2009). Evans is a Jones Lecturer in poetry at Stanford University, where he was previously a Stegner Fellow.

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