Stopped once. It was a little strip
of building by the road, Midwest.


Midwest, mid-sex. In the middle
of America, antipodes. Poplars


flanked the street. Yes, the street
had tree-lined flanks. Dry poplars.


And in-between, a view, sky blue.
An American here backs down,


backs back, stumbling into a sweet
pea-sized infinite. Withers


to the height of a grass blade,
to seed asleep in form. Roots


will grow and conform and reach
the alum-tainted water and those doors


with their polished sashes. Air, dust,
lust to phantom a low orange moon


hanging in the sky, another rock.