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Over 40 years
at the cutting edge
of poetry publishing

Andrew Johnston, from Sol


The rivers teemed with
enormous freshwater shrimps

but that was Martinique
and I was thinking of Louisiana —

backroads strewn with sugar cane,
your swampboat cousin at Atchafalaya —

bless you. We'd both caught colds
from running in the rain across New Orleans.

Z'habitants, écrevisses, ouassous, crawfish —
whatever you call them, they're so good

we could push the boat out, every night
and every morning
sleep late, talk, turn the boat around,
head for another shore.