A hasty graveyard’s makeshift
fence, boarded houses and
token snow, stained pavement
where a carcass bled, covered horses
with no place to go, an old barn
slowly collapsing between refineries
and grains, a rare bridge among infinite
hills, and one last bird (and another) through
your brain, stalled boxcars and broken
jukeboxes, a field cut within an inch
of its dirt—like so—and railroad
parallel singed crops, and wind
winding across the highway
with the look of dry ice
in a place no worse than your earth.