Hello past:
Do you want to hear your mistakes?
Do you want my wounds fomented like dreams?
I want to spoon you into clouds,
present you like the aluminous sheets
shaken daily from the silo rooftops.
Sham rocked in the 4-H club
fashion, never stopping till
enlightenment sells for pennies a day
and the soap-box prairie
thanks ice for its winter stand still.
This is the Russian wheat, the frame-boarded house
we hoteled ourselves, paying land
the winter and dropping kerosene
kisses come spring.
We’re burying something
underneath blue stem and red seed.
The turbine turns dust signals
that corn cob whites will never see.
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