y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche
Pablo Neruda, “Walking Around”
and it howls on its course like an injured wheel,
and takes hot bloody footsteps towards the night—
that’s not right, but then, it never is.
I was saying:
around mile 80 on 71 in Ohio, a farmer
put up two billboards. one said
HELL IS REAL, the other,
IF YOU DIED TODAY,
WHERE WOULD YOU SPEND ETERNITY?
the trees were all bare when I drove by
in November. the ones far away
were foul wisps of cotton,
the ones closer up were absurd,
too complex: a tangle of equations
warped in nature’s mind
like the undersexed mind of the monk
dumping gospels on vellum. they all
looked small, so laugh-out-loud
small that the smeared gray sky
would have sucked out my eyes
if I didn’t fill it up with something.
we were all in a worn old
sack at that moment, and we’d all get
pitched from the ground
when God picked it up, or crushed
when He tossed more candies in.
so why not tie the sky back down
with Hell? and why not fill
the windy in-between with
a great brass wheel
to roll over the silos
and the tiny trees?
to squash the tiny telephone poles all tossed
in at different angles?
to howl like tornados? a freight train? fire?
and to leave a molten metal wound
wobbling through the corn?
and why not roar
like it roars
for everyone who hasn’t heard?
fiction poetry "fact" photography