The grassland comes up to the edge
of the road on which I’m standing.
The car has turned off.
Has been turned off.
A gunshot is easily heard.
The grassland exists. My eyes see
that the land is a banner
the wind holds up. The ground turns
under and around and then becomes
a densely forested park where
the trees are all lying on their sides.
After the hurricane came through
I couldn’t find my way out.
The erasable beginning
kept coming back like a weaving
I took out at night. By noon,
it was yesterday again—a sketch
barely held together by a stitch
or two. As another woman once said,
“A circle lower than this one
is waiting for the one
who kept coming at me.”
She knew how nice
a tormenter looks when buried in ice.