wherein nebraska opens its cornfield arms
calls me back
to late summer thunder
to ligthning bugs lifting
to lines called roads that reach horizon
a barn of possibility
a ragweed season of sneezes
a water project accumulating
one odd patch on the agricultural quilt of
green brown yellow
circle circle square

now you’re a real writer
taylor says outside suzie’s stand
it’s no macdowell
i say
but it makes more sense this way


looking for moonrise i imagine a lookout
some design for roof-access
before fetching backyard laundry where
some school boy scrambles up tree
to rooftop perch
calling out come on come on come on
in a serious whisper to his
absolutely oblivious to me