Departure
J. Quinn Brisben
Trees are not native to my native ground
Except thin growths that mark the banks of creeks
More surely than their phantom flow which leaks
So sluggishly most months, past aching sound
Of dry winds rocking crooked cottonwoods.
Most useless trees, they must be soaked in pitch
To hold the raw barbed wire stretched tight and which
As posts still rot and crack. Nice shade, though, hoods
That masked me often as I planned escape
From churches, dust, straight lines on prairies, scope-
Constricting worlds I did not know I held
Within me. Fooled and happy, I went bold
Through fields like New Jerusalem revealed
To John on Patmos: bright, four-square, and gold.
