Asides

the cool whisper
of the story of the wind
its pages turning

geese fly through thick mist
like rows of ghostly stitches
quilting the night sky

young birch stretches tall
breathing like a scared rabbit
all shadow and light

This parking lot
hasn’t seen a car in thirty years
Prairie grass grows four feet tall
heaves concrete out of its way
without asking
Who else knows about the blackberries ripening here
besides the sun
Next door, graffiti bellows
WORLD IN TROUBLE
a slow revolution
clover and bindweed spill across pavement
chicory, joe pye weed seep into the streets
and those grasses four feet tall
flood the neighborhood with prairie
until it covers the city
until it covers the earth
waving with every gust of wind
this empty lot’s
only chance at freedom

My face is a battleground
children starved
men stabbed through the heart
cattle were slain
the village burned

Instantly transported to the last weekend in May
driving through tiny towns
old-fashioned main streets
dilapidated and peeling rust
singing songs whose copyrights have expired
lilacs seduce the air
black cows sprinkled like pepper across lush green hills
godlight
drenches the valley
the sky fills the whole world
a revelation
like when I first heard this song

Drop me off in any city
four hours later
you’ll find me
on the ragged edge of town
aside of an abandoned building
a dandelion bursting full-blooded summer
through a crack in the sidewalk
an oasis of wilderness
I’m calibrated to
a dirt road
fifty miles from any stop sign
a far-off train whistle
one sprawling oak tree
its sweeping arms cradling an entire flock of starlings
the iridescence of their wings
spilling into
the shimmer of their song