Ranks of wind-soused oaks

shake blue bars of shadow

across Rt. 47 and I’m imprisoned 

for miles, fenders mud-tattooed 

in the sloppy noon game. 

The radio sneezes indecipherable 

frequencies as I enter the flood plain

steering like a fiend and girdled 

in grays, until the fuss fades 

and I’m released into alluvial 

sun, mooned by low-humped 

cornfields oozing and ticking

with crows agleam in the hour’s 

blue oil. Thirst salts the window.

Will I wander, green, into work?

An elephant flaps a vast ear

and shifts the planet forward.