Brother I don’t either understand this
skipscrapple world that is—these
slick bubble cars zip feverish down
paved rushes of notcorn of notbeets
of notcabbage and the land and the land—
You should know, man, nothing
grows down here anymore except
walloped wishes and their gouged out
oil cans. Where bloodroot might span our
distance sit these bars land mined in the sand
lit from the inside eye these cages they twist us
they tornado us. No.
I don’t understand. Not those grates
not the grackles circling overblind
all perched so close to the beach there
we could smell winter freeze. In spring
did the wind bring the scent of smelt?
Remember? Even strike years mother
found smelt by the fingery bagful
and fried them almost whole.
It was almost enough.