From the salvage yard, there are two black dogs who run
through the post-harvest fields of winter wheat as stalks
running on last legs
From the GM plant and the empty storefronts’ lull
all the finches, quick, are undressed inside their song
of a sad place to love
Well the houses are matchsticks after everyone left
but the soil is good and we’re not dead yet
Open up the motorbike/burning down the turnpike
Perfect lines, effortless
Keep me in your hidden thoughts/where every road that ever crossed
had council held with the snow/resting easy—this is home
This is home
With the husk of Delco heavy in the loom
will there always be as many empty rooms
or eyes?