Flatland
ii.

Swarming into the future
like dragonflies—
Thoughts can be pretty or
ugly as hell.



A silver battalion
charging the windows,
they try to get in
where the old ladies
separate string and the
old men sand wood blocks.



Mosquito hawks.
says one old woman.
We used them for bait
when I still had my leg.

Flatland
i.

You are old,
farm truck. Traffic has
no time for you. Hay
bales, farmhands,
cattle,

gone.

I want to chase the suns
you’ve seen. Explore
your wooden panels—

Everything
that touched you.

I want to know
why sitting at
this stoplight
makes me
cry.