Reception
Ranks of wind-soused oaks
shake blue bars of shadow
across Rt. 47 and I’m imprisoned
for miles, fenders mud-tattooed
in the sloppy noon game.
The radio sneezes indecipherable
frequencies as I enter the flood plain
steering like a fiend and girdled
in grays, until the fuss fades
and I’m released into alluvial
sun, mooned by low-humped
cornfields oozing and ticking
with crows agleam in the hour’s
blue oil. Thirst salts the window.
Will I wander, green, into work?
An elephant flaps a vast ear
and shifts the planet forward.