So Unlike Any Simple Thing I Know
Near the gray barn, the tumultuous sky
the color of white-bean ash:
it seems as if the lights of the truck
barreling through tunnels of white
do not blink, but strum the gravel
ragged along the road; it seems as if,
half sound, half silence, the sky
is composed to number and stay my wheels:
how long it takes to move round the curve
in the dark, careful like an empty freight
car: how the Schramel farm rises up,
unhurried, its exhausted fence too strong
to fall upon itself in the wind:
how sometimes at twilight you can see
the dead fall and sun floating down
like bloodroot: how I have lived like that.
Eva Hooker
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