the scent of manure drifts in and out of
this rural consciousness
where evergreen boxed tractors trudge down
the open fields of worn pavement that
crickets lullaby. their late night ballad is
muted by spellbinding thunderstorms,
whose layover is right outside these scattered,
white, dingy two-story homes and
sometimes these heavy storms gurgle
inside our bellies or whirl the contractions in our heads–
sometimes it’s too hard to tell.


an expectation affirmed by memories of
broken, glittered pavements that once led to
fates that promised a happy ending.
we sometimes find treasures in the wreckage–
passionate urges to fold into ourselves
and flirt with addictions that offer us
temporary solace. whether they overwhelm us
or liberate us, we still feel helpless
like those battery-operated puppies
street vendors sell, except the switch is damaged
and we can’t stop our automatic, mechanical legs
from running into the wall.