No music plays in
the general store in Circle, Alaska,
which is full of mukluks and
Wonder Bread.
Villagers fish the Yukon,
memorize river rise,
bet on
breakup.
Long ago miners arrived from Outside
to sift, chip
rip fortunes
from earth.
Stilts were drilled into permafrost and
structures were imposed and
all bustle and
rage.
Then claims fell dry and
no patience and Circle started to
wither.
The locals
picked up pieces of buildings, tried to
heal the
pock-marked ground.
Today a tourist’s crisp dollar might
mean something,
except the locals would have to tolerate
the perfumey tourist.
Villagers fish the Yukon,
memorize river rise,
bet on breakup. The soil smells of
fool’s gold and blood
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