Beneath the long shadows of crosses and crows
that shade the slopes of passing hills
the white space I have left around this experience
explodes into a smile of oaks—
the page is a blur with unspeak—
there is an audience to every song,
especially the parts unsung:
the giant crosses overlooking nothing, then wheat,
are smaller than even the faintest human touch
and the scars left by crows are only visible
when nobody is left to see them.
I want to write nothing,
so much nothing the entire audience
explodes in Ozark flowers.
(published in Rosebud)