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Brian Beatty
excerpt from "Brazil, Indiana" ( a folk poem)
The slightest rain
would flood the low road
beneath the viaduct
—floating drowned rats
halfway up the doors
of our stalled cars.
There was no escape.
We didn’t dare roll down
our windows to free ourselves.
A train thundering along on the tracks
overhead would typically take the weather
and water with it if we waited just a few hours.
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