DIGGING IN NEBRASKA
It is May and it has come to this. My kingdom
of parceled-out plots, the neighbor riding
his mower, the yelping dogs, the entitled cats striding
across the cropped face of gray sidewalks. A bird’s wing
rots at the mouth of the grand drain, and here I swing
from underserved peace to despair after gliding
through this decade of rightful living, hiding
away all blissful filth, the vibrancy of the guilt-thing.
Picture me, rake and shovel, standing here,
an armed mid-American dreamer of a billion
points of light—that lie of that old chevalier.
I dig deep, searching for worms, and turn up blood sillion—
yes, that word borrowed for sure, but not too dear
a price for the flame of this sinful sulfidic vermillion.