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ISOLATE
The wheat field, like ten thousand arms, and the dirt road
that cuts through the middle, the bisection. The tall flame
of the wheat, the height, the direction the dirt road takes;
like an arrow with a point and a tail on a map. One end leads
to another end, to a yellow farmhouse, to a split-rail fence
around the farmhouse in the middle of a wheat field, in the middle
of ten thousand arms. The dirt road, the yellow house and barn,
the red barn with the black oak, giving shade, taking light.
Everything anyone
could want.
–– from Cider Press Review
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