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.