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.