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Where
Her Father's Farm Was
Shingles
and fresh mortar
brag:
all
is change,
acquiescence.
Prairie
quiet long since
lapsed
like
dinosaurs
before
divorce/debt/more/less,
big
or cheap alluviates
the new
custom
homes, breakfast
nooks,
Egyptian
cotton bath towels--
houses
that grin and wave,
doctrinaire--they
lack history
despite
cathedral doors.
The
shelter belt was
christmas pine.
Now,
four lanes of bright
white lines
forget
the past that cannot
stop or say hello.
Correspondence
Your
floods of snow are
absolute,
temporary
geographic facts
to
steady a stretch
of bike stands,
pin
clothesline limbs
with ice and frost.
Where
I cross off
little
numbered boxes,
snow
planes the pucker
brush,
defunct
river beds;
sulky
clouds dismiss
calendar
demarcations,
"winter"
or "spring,"
and
cold hangs around,
in
no mood for moving
on.
For
you the sun can
sink with few regrets
beneath an electrified,
overpopulated skyline.
Here
it fades like an
old bruise--
yellow
outer traces
lighten
last.
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