|The 2River View, 7.1 (Fall 2002)
Looking at Roadside Bluestem Before Leaving Decatur
A littered gully fills with tire carcasses, beer bottles,
a bed of random gravel,
The air tastes thick, too heavy with factory drafts—
God we love what they send on the wind,
We love this scent of money, the dry, paper taste on the backs of our tongues.
We love these old plants while they live.
Against blue-purple culms, silk filaments catch backlight.
Against blue but septic skies, forage grass appears from attention and neglect.
The copper colored turkey claw gives the universe the finger.
Fires in the fall smooth the dry horizon but will not flare
We want to love the native grass, taller than a woman, tall as any man.
We want to stay where bluestem roots, gnarled like human