Full moon in daylight above a wind farm,
each colossal arm longer than a blue whale.
In the next valley, color blazes like flame
turned low, a shallow sea of globe mallow.
A fenceline links the two horizons. Look at
but the boys are bent over an eruption
of ants, watching slabs of dropped meat fold
into the twisting frenzy at the mouth of the hole.
Gods of plenty, take hold this air, squeeze
the excess from our genius. We deserve
whatever we can forget, hot alkaline dust
rising from the lake’s lost body. Across Nevada
my youngest runs a fever, shudders like grassland
along the highway, like a road, heat comes off him
in radiant, paralyzing waves, we study him
until he becomes the atlas, his mother’s hand traces
his heaving chest, now basin, now range,
as the desiccated timbers of a ghost town flume
flash by, our only faith the faith of movement: almost
there, though we only meant the dark.