LOCAL EIGHT-YEAR-OLD DECIMATES CROP WITH SINGLE FIRECRACKER
Our highway driving, fields and squared, assigned
selves in passing, bare rush of drivers’ views
quickened by terrain not traversed afoot, only
mind steps that near the fencing around want.
We never walk off into this lining expanse—
as the wind out here augments the furrows, a rich
and tactile feeling of opened progress, soil, a found
destination in why we are driving at all. The taste of
the asphalt’s grains begins to thin; our faces level with dusk.
Barefoot, a subtle yes. Please, a lie with me, here,
the waters edged by come, moons of honey, and outstretched arms
with fingers for roots. What reinforced perception crests,
floods out all of its naturally eroding paths,
into our field, that field, a field. The car buried in soft
topography, we can appreciate the weather, decay.
LET IT RIDE RIDE / COPYRIGHT 2011 JAMES WELLS
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