i
i don’t know what it is about dimondale
that makes me feel so far away;
i don’t know if it’s the fall wind blowing me
across these long dusks that reminds me of places
i barely ever was, the tygart valley, say, or
bee hill road. it is like hiding in a fold of
the universal garment, like an addendum
shrunk down of the wide emptiness
stretching north to the manistee, where
you can see a blinking yellow five miles
ahead of getting there. but in dimondale i
can walk the world from end to end in a couple
of hours and be satisfied,
having seen everything.
ii
oh, they say there is life outside of windsor
charter township—south africa, say,
they like soccer a lot more. but why
would you want there to be?
dead possums and winter wheat and sky:
these three categories
are the whole of
creation: nothing lives
that is not one
of these.
