Dispeller
Justin Runge


In my hometown, I am absence of home. I am shortfall of awe. I am defog. Wiper blade raking a glaze of rain. I am the kitchen light Mother kept on. Unlocked garage. Evening intersection’s non-traffic. I am what bends air so that it, tuning, forks. I am bed made. I am unchange. Ghost uneasily roomed. Yearbook yearly removed. So I am removal of book dust. Carpeting, cleaned. I am no apple tree. I am quietest stair climb. I am far-off mowing. Hypnic jerk. Reason for moving.



Saftey

Leave the toaster warm, plugged in.
Don’t speak as you board the bus.
Ignorance will vaporize danger.
Make it a mist you walk through.
Turning off the news will help.
The hero walks from detonation.

Does not look back, even flinch.
Every alarm goes wild with burn.
Laughing, visit each bleating one.
Wobble on a chair to remove them.
Dismantle them. Scatter the pieces.
Know where the smoke comes from.

About the author:
Justin Runge lives in Lawrence, Kansas, where he serves as poetry editor of Parcel. He is the author of two chapbooks, Plainsight (New Michigan Press, 2012) and Hum Decode (forthcoming from Greying Ghost Press). Recipient of a 2014 Langston Hughes Award, Runge has published in Best New Poets 2013, Linebreak, DIAGRAM, and elsewhere. He can be found here.