Bone blue sky.
Arctic summer light rolls
sideways across the cabbage fields.
The skin of the land pulled taut
like a great sturgeon back.
Wild mustard along the fence line
and a burst of bird lightning.
Mr. Rooter smiles as if Oregon were
a truth dispensary of buttered waffles.
By the mailbox, a woman picks
blackberries in a ditch.
On the hill, a giant white cross
with its cash crop of Sunday cars.
It’s hard to know when to pull over.
True velocity is being fresh within.
Cloud horses stamp in their stalls—
Russians longing for birch trees.
Lines in the Vermeer painted fields
so red they cannot be eaten.