This poem is no jerked iron drug – no money runs, no fur, and higher, no lunch –
the truck stirs, you imagine touch –
Jake wears skirts without being drunk or hurled toward love & Iowa which exists as a verb where natives once lived different lives –
junk girls look for arrow heads
in tall grass,
defining identity through absence.
Click to open. Click to go to sleep. Click to wake up the next day –
Click for resurrection when the light changes.
Intersections exist for those passing through and for those wishing a change in direction.
The grocery store offers many kinds of depression. I pick, I choose. I fill my bag with all sorts. When I get home, I put some away in the cupboards, some in the fridge, some by the sink to prepare the next meal.
The junk girls show up and we all eat as they tell me excitedly about what they had found out there
in the grass.
