Gradually sweet radiant
interstate south of

Normal, north
of Hell’s mouth

closed until June, I have seen
no earth this red.

Why isn’t grace the intensely
seen rather than impending?

I continue to abort more
utterances than the names

of animals can endure,
our language lacking

richness for our abundant
boredom. The presence

of curtained light above
farm fields is still too young

to explain away, too far
from us to fail yet.