The quiver of prairie grass
reminds me of birdsong,

and all those mornings I rose
from one life into another.

From that life where I would run,
feet callused from paspalum and rye

out to corn silos I took for the end
of the world, until I walked farther—

until it shrank and shriveled
like chicken wire. I cut myself

bare handed. I caught myself
living here and not living.

The smell of hay lingers in my memory.
The garden is overgrown

with sowthistle, bermuda, crabgrass.
I want to scoop the dirt up, turn it,

plant every thought I have
until they grow new, but my brain swings

like the screen door I used to slam,
listening to wind chimes sing, watching

silence rising from the dust that rises.