wednesday, august 19

83/93

— rust-colored metal, too hot in the sun to touch
insects flashing in the falling wheat, the truckbed rattle
combine chaff, the dust after sundown,
gravel roads dead still air and iced tea in dirty jugs
case IH john deere dodge and chevy,
vise-grip doorhandles, WD-40 duct tape and denim
the house where my grandmother was a little girl
the saturday evening post half a century under the floor
traintracks, elevators, the smell of drought
the sound of small towns unasleep in the heat,
box fans and ice melting in a glass
apple orchard refuse, bonfire smoke and cornstalk shatter
fireflies, fireworks, flooded fields, wedding ceremony sweat —