Sean Hill

Yet in Bemidji


And for her I translate

my tongue to theirs—

I shouldn’t have another drink;

I have to drive home yet.


But it’s light out yet.


That yet at the end,

a lingering way of saying still,

gets me on the line

like fish being pulled

from under the ice.


Vivid as cells splitting,


from everything, or a blush


across her cheek, the stillness

of winter seeps in

like the diction and syntax

of the locals, holding off

what is to come and what



And on the way home, red—

a fox in the headlights’

sidelong shine,

head down, hunting

or in supplication.


The yetness of winter, the

stillness of winter

The silent time and yet



Visiting the Carriage House

Sean Hill: Bio


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