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Dawn Potter: Maine, July 2026
We put on a show.Two days of swelter and flat orange daylight.Afterwards a man,Blame the sky on wildfires. Admit that the gods havea nice man,decided to pull the plug andasked why we’d chosen to includewhy shouldn’t we die? Just one more murder in a rivera poem about murder. We said,of murder, but the latest was twenty minutes from my house.Because murders are true.This morning, while I was…
Dawn Potter: Remembering Baron Wormser
“The hand that lets go” Baron Wormser (1948-2025) . In 1983, Baron Wormser published his first collection of poetry, The White Words. Now, more than forty years after it appeared, I open to the book’s second poem, “Of Small Towns.” The surmises that the metropolis loves To make, the crushes of people whose names you will Never know, the expansive gestures made Among incoherent…
Dawn Potter: To the Republic
after HoraceThose last moments, before the sun drops behind the hills,you linger, not yet yourself—no darkness, no stars—still waiting, waiting for the curtain to sigh shut,for the stage to empty, for the dust of the actors’ feetto shuffle and settle.Where is the owl?Silence swells,and the bright fingers of evening fade to ink.A bat triangulates the heavens; the heavensbend low, heavy as…
Dawn Potter: Home Burial
The ambulance never showed up at my neighbor’s house,only a police car,and after a while a hearse.I was watering the garden and the pea plantsweren’t thriving. They had a fungus,which was probably my fault.But it was too late to save them.I wonder about the sounds that still lingerin my neighbor’s house—mice scuffling among oldmagazines, the click of twigs against a pane.When I go to bed, I…
Dawn Potter: Piers Plowman
Nay, in all that toil, backbent, flash of cigarette, eartips red in sunsplash sunsorrow, handsground to bone—Listen—In the groans of cattle, insects angelsing,skyskiff clouds break and gather, swallowsswift as thought strip the summerspunair, clank of baler, of rake, seesaw swish of mower knives,beehives ablaze in the heartstab hours—Now ask—Who mutters the low notes, croons the old…
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this road is empty for most of the day but when the log trucks whip over the ridge jake-breaking belching diesel then watch out deer the soot-stained sky glowers snow is on the way snow is always on the way & the tar is always buckled with potholes & frostheaves & in the ditch today old mrs richards is hunting for budweiser cans for mountain dew bottles to trade down at the store for baloney to feed her grandson he’s three & he’s smart she tells me he’s three & his teeth are rotting out of his head
Walking Into Town by Dawn Potter
Babies so far
Anton got married to Bella Goth and adopted two kids with her-
and Dom had baby with Cassandra
Im highly amused with this for some reason
~This save isnt connected to Dom’s story so this isnt apart of his actual story~
New house!
And a club for the first 8 kids so its easy to invite everyone over at the same time.
