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.
