Because I am going where it's
empty, I am bringing a prairie. The long
flat dusk light acres
the fields. Listen, it's red. It is a bad land. Each
person is a barrack of wind.
I saw a man and a horse vanish into
the riverbed and not drown.
It was wind. Coming to barracks in winter,
the high plains will hide you.
Nebraska, rather than have me, my mother
headed the roses a bit longer.