At the end of my longest day,
The thrust of guilt,
A river buried in snow

The grey of hair and teeth
Shoes too small
That can’t, in their abandonment,
Recall that a footstep
Is like a breath

A blonde eye charts the seasons,
Pins winter to the sky
With broken backs
And rising smoke stacks
A shriveled iris in the ground

The train weeps on its wheels
Mouths filled
With layers of earth,
Dead crops dance in a dream
Like people

There is no you or I
There is no sun
Only the land,
A snow-covered field
Where last year’s plows are
Barely visible.