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.
Poems from in between 
3 responses to “I 57”
This is all the gorgeousness I love about your work. And I-57? I knew it well…my little house was in a little town just off 57 🙂
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Oh! Yay on two counts! Are you coming back to Chicago this summer?
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Yep, it’s official. We’ll be rolling in around the first of August. Some flexibility on where to settle…looking for good schools meet affordability. 🙂
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