What is it about rows of corn stubs
flipping past, electrical wires sagging

in sync with the tracks, whistle beaming
out to snow-flat fields, clumps of houses,
trees so far away you think of desert,

that pulls me back to dream-like chatter,
long nights on empty roads? We meet again

in this rhythmic void, away from every-
where that is any place, away from any
precise memory even, but somehow rejoined

in this wide open endlessness, orange sun
spreading under soft navy clouds.