Whirr, whirr the Heartland’s
being mowed up by wind turbines.
Then, a kid chasing, I opened my shin to the bone
on the ball hitch of dad’s truck braking
and bled back to the house.
S’pose you saw the heavy-arcing horizon
of your childhood get flat straining
to influence fate
and you became an even bigger animal of pathos,
head in your hands while the bones of small birdsfell from the sky and their bodies wouldn’t.