Patrick Williams

We drive past barns that seem simply only able
to implode, to be recast in spiders’ web. We crowd
the margins of our inhabitable worlds. We race there.
The sugar ship they sent to please us ran aground
in the St. Lawrence this morning. We could board it
ourselves if you’d just clasp your hands & give me a little
boost. We could haul it in & make it ours forever. We could
take the torch & break it down for scrap. Somewhere
back in the flyover states, they’re all doing something
with corn. They’re saying things we’ll never hear.
They’re watching the sun & the moon & everything else
rise from over here. They wait on the wind for signs.
If they look hard enough, just now, they may even see us fade.