Two poems by Paul Otremba appear in The Account:
The New Republic of California
I was not remembering the Republic—the cooked egg expertly peeled and split,
a more perfect union toppled by a hair—because that was love they split.
It’s a problem with the math, being told to pick points on a map, then to imagine
your body in towns you’ll never visit, the distance constantly split.
On this side, a landscape of prisons, pox, slumping extractions of minerals;
on that side, prayer groups and quarterly projections, so hardly a good split.
. . . continue reading here.