a heavy moon hung over space

    where there was almost nothing

    but one big town at dead center.

    Grasshoppers popped under tires，

    the trees swelled with grackles，

    and I amused myself with windmills ——

    the solitary geometry of glint and spin，

    slowing then standing motionless

    until the sky raised its dark fist.

    The autumn my mother left

    a coldness opened . . .

    Beans dried to snakes' tails in the fields，

    and my chest filled with rust.

    In the snow I walked the pastures

    in an orange poncho

    my father could see from the house.

    Once I told him to stop waving at me.

    Once I said maybe I‘ll just keep walking.

    And once I slid the poncho

    to the near-frozen middle of Moots Pond

    just to watch him run from the house

    barefoot and wild.