From the back seat
of a sedan,
not long flat fields,
tree lines,
farmhouses, daughters
but the ditch
before the fields
I can’t relate to,
more dead
than square.
Cattail’s root
I won’t get, down
in the thin border
between where order,
the highway, the field,
makes money — enough air,
finally I can see it pull
the full length
without whisky — finally, we stop
and as I breathe out,
the air I release
stays roped to me
and as it joins
the other air,
it pulls me
after it.
