In the damp shade
of this overgrown off-
ramp triangle, thick clots of woodchips
brace a few stubborn hostas, wild
asters, and lots
of Leinenkugel bottles.
Nobody's clapped
their hands around
this place for a while;
all the fairies
look faint
and ugly,
like paperwhite moths
in that singular over-
wrought moment before dawn:
they exist—but just
so achingly
on the edge of almost
that it hardly seems like
a secret worth telling, let alone anything
magical.
