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.