In the images of America, the point
we’re in something of the sky exits.
Accompanied under
clouds paired under what shadow
falls from, there’s one
hand’s fingers busying a cornstalk,
and somewhere is another hand.

             How does one sleep
             in here?
             If something can sear
             its name into nothing what is it 
             negating what?

Hire the vacant lot an hour, not
its bulk but its acuity for mauve
in certain slivers of a Thursday.
America is Tuesday.
Its tomorrow is diesel unyielding
in the seated acres of an evening.

Assent’s grunt will keep the cold
bayed, or may just melt
the rot taste of fieldcorn gnawed for
warmth. Pink hide. Tin roof. Shield
sky. Its tomorrow
will tomorrow arrive.