Diana Adams Xylophone tones roll up the river, each note a mirrored dust, a goalpost, as daughters bounce off summer’s shoulders, the idea of mars never quite landing & a WWII navigator remembers his windless map of stars. Something hidden comes out readied for a moment in the middle of us: the family station wagon’s wooded sides riding Swan hills, sun’s noon gown kept at respectful distance. The rest of the thought lost in...