Even the interstate cries out of silence, hovering under

the floodlights and puddles of gasoline burning the moon.

Someone is leaving this city forever. And someone is

driving the Sauvie Island beaches where girls walk naked

The name spoke of sharp light
gathered around stones and cast up

against the undersides of aspen
leaves or carried for miles

its note is not disagreeable though loud –
- Meriwether Lewis, first written description of the magpie

Magpies like the one the Corps
sent back to Monticello
in a cage made of sticks and hide

What guilt, to see a bird in a building

and rejoice a moment: vessel of the air

I long to breath – but caught, desperate,

lunging. A bird is bound so firmly to place:

The music, she thinks, is supposed to comfort. It’s meant as a kindness; they are relentlessly kind here. It comes from a small plastic stereo the nurse switches on after helping Claire onto the bed. Claire thinks she recognizes the melody, and feels mildly ashamed for not being able to put a name to it.

Get On before Me?

While in the train station, I noticed people from the Third World boarding trains heading toward the past. Meanwhile people from the First World were boarding trains bound for the future. After a short while, two men from the Third World caught my eye. They were trying to board a train to the future.

Squatted down on his great haunches, Glen Ryan, the ditchrider, fingers the hairy green leaves, the tight buds erupting into waxy purple stars. Knapweed. And a mess of it.

We walked through the field a long time, pushing tall grass out of the way, before we saw anything. I’d pluck ticks out of my hair later and scratch red bumps. I hoped it was worth it.

Florence thinks she hears the doorbell while watching Wheel of Fortune. She goes to greet her visitor, but there’s no one, just the white glare of her empty driveway and the drone of mowers pushed by shirtless teenage boys. Florence closes her door slowly. She never feels lonely, except when she expects to see another person and doesn’t.