this new world turns like a watermill
on a red clay river where I find myself
spitting dirt rocks through tall bladed cattails
cutting the heat of tractor engines lighting up
honkytonks and a mob full of ghost faces
white as dove feathers yet I am unafraid
as shrieks scurry into backfields leading
to somewhere and the carrying on of slung
tires swinging over a burning bridge
on someone’s front yard dandelions lay
with their fluff half-blown flat breath over glass jaws
strumming straw windchime whistles between teeth
tuning forks kicking up dust in the world’s melody
a sudden creek rolling me through the rushes
the penny-flamed sun falling all at once like a cliché
like autumn leaves slow dancing to the ground
or horses running from water mid-stream running
running toward the scene I follow into the hills
stacked like cannons without ammunition
without a soul to steal or save