Friday, December 17, 2010


Along a grey road that cuts through a green world,

you reach across the horizon,

each leaf the same, twisting, circling up.

There is a car, a Chevy from the 70's, perhaps once it was blue.

The creeping blanket has engulfed it mostly, through each window,

across the cab, over the hood, with a pointed tongue, its tip extended, its brown tip.

A house, no longer a home, verdant and abundant, sits sentinel over a field, where cotton was picked and pickles were made.

I lay on the grass and wait for the kudzu to reach me, I wait to forget.