telephone pole and wire fence in front of cold snowy field

(g)round bones

white sky
blisters January to ground
gouged by ruts. muddy clods
where tires spun
catch the pale glare.
i watch light calcify their shine,
into vertebrae knobbing from earth.
even this spine is lobed.
all things the shape of pregnant.
all bulbs dormant.
along the ditch i collected fossils—
my farm was always
a grave and a nebula.

bleak horizon,
a circle from the widow’s watch.
the perfect reflection
for my spinning hem, my looping
thoughts cycling. seasons
falling into winter. we’re on a Mobius
coiling round
last year’s bones littering
fallow fields by the fencerow—
where deer return to earth,
where worms are turning,
w(interring) remains
for birth of spring.