by daniel butterworth
Against the thunderheads grazing the mountains
your wings move a machine lighter than air
above fields giving their desolations over
to green. Is it chemical you lay over weeds
ripe with feral hopes, or fertilizer that hauls you
down toward hope? Metaphor is uneasy under
your flight flickering above the Rattlesnake Hills
when your biplane scours ranges of the heartland.
Meltwaters from our childhood sift down
to cultivate the years with the memory of you
un-kissed. The sudden leveling of the cropduster
nearly knocks me off the highway, no metaphor
at all but the final mortal road from here
through fever and light to anywhere at all.