Bluestem presses against the orbital sockets
of our Pontiac, here where you remain open-minded, elegant,
frank in the ether-haven
of what’s left, where things are
done the right way the
first time, where broods of nursing bats
sound panicky beneath
the eaves of your dreaming eyes, where dusk’s sinuous
jet path body
can be a whip
and what the whip means licks the ‘ataway,
where the yonder you watch
from our vista on the pedestrian bilge, its lost waterway
now husky corn stubble, a seed vault
or black box
on replay or a perfectly good car battery in the snow,
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