Day in Dakota

And the wind never stops,
and the water never looks like glass
but rather like a ploughed field,
and the few trees strain
in a losing battle to remain straight,
or else give up and grow low and squat
thick fingered limbs splayed.
And car becomes carp,
flitting across the road.
The wheel is a living thing in my hands.


Corn and soybeans where the ocean roared.
No more buffalo roaming
through eight foot prarie grass:
wide open spaces cut into square mile sections,
defied by spontaneous lakes,
arising out of dimples in the land
shallow havens for slimy weeds, fish,
and waterfowl tourists.