for findlay, ohio

lying by a picnic table
in the belly of the night

somewhere so nondescript
it was in Ohio, Indiana, Michigan
all at the same time:

a town with a name
like Fayetteville
you know is everywhere

having wandered through rain
through thin corridors
of oaks not yet in leaf

he was trying to think of
somewhere better than
between sodden cotton

and whatever else;
Wild Turkey in a little
plastic bottle

but realized he only
imagined elsewhere in
a certain kind of way:

disembodied like a
waking dream, silent
with distant music

and no voices there,
but time maybe,
time maybe finally.

thinking what if
beauty was actually
not having to think

all the time about picturesque
desolations and stolen moments
or ambient music and the psalm

nisi dominus aedificaverit;
but a loud place, full of
people instead of images.

vanum est vobis ante lucem surgere:
imagine instead
a cacophony of voices

and the pleasure of motion
non confundetur cum loquetur
inimicis suis in porta, do you see?

it need not be so grey.
enamor yourself with
neighbors, he thought.

sleeping on gravel
in a lonely wayside park
somewhere unknown

wishing for horizons on
his back, but seeing only
the faint furrows of low cloud

and the pathlessness of space beyond
the rain.

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