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Adam Houle

Third Street

When the days seem off, I go back
to that sagging, unlovely house
and my roommate who drank
Coors Light on the gray porch
that nearly but didn’t quite offer a view 
of Lake Superior. Even deep winter
found us bundled and wind-lashed
talking this or that or easily quiet, 
mittens cupping beer cans, ice-shag 
jewelling both our beards. Still,
like matryoshka dolls left unnested
or even Stevens’ equitable snowman,
we studied the living snow thriving.
So I strain at times to see the lake.
The breakwater where the worst of it
raged the coast with ice-maned spray.
The ore dock’s hard jut, rusted, standing. 

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