they say the wheat fields
go on for miles,
that i can look up at blue sky,
that it swallows everything
like one big gaping mouth.
stark red barns stick up and out of the
ground like beacons and obliterate
the landscape until it’s just shape and color:
a painting with
white smears for clouds.
the sun is one big yellow dot painted
over and
over
and over
again.
there aren’t many horses,
but i’ve seen speckled cows
graze in their pastures
and moo horizon-ward.
grandmothers really do
make sunday dinners
and sew dresses out of flour bags.
grandfathers will play records until infinity
and chew tobacco on porches.
the wind really does hear every noise,
and yet they are always swallowed up and carried away.
