Dream of a Drive Long Ago

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.