he was ready to believe whatever Kitala's runes said





when they sent children out to gather the shapeliest throwing-stones





the Outer Hebrides of my superstitions,
a cricket behind the couch




listening in on the billionaire's supplicating prayer




the grounds crew moving like impressed sailors in the outfield




resting in the flat-lit meadow
the absolutist and the clouded sulphur butterfly




they were afraid to wake the drunken man on the beach




moving on from fatalistic inevitability
to sharing Dippin' Dots




time traveling on the sun-freckled deer paths of the Shawnee



Bio: Patrick Sweeney is a short-form poet and devotee of the public library.