A valley staked
to the horizon
by staggered rows
of head-high corn,
the ground merely
surmised, aimlessly
surveyed. Just a view
to keep in reserve,
as you take it slow
on a linear dirt road
confining this field,
hallowed by cool,
pervasive light, each
stalk, each lolling leaf
preternaturally clear,
even orbiting bugs
impeccably revealed.
Consider a full stop,
getting out, kneeling
hard by those legions,
their blue sighs lingering
just above overlapping
lances of jade. Every
rumbling tiller, every
relentless reaper
called home, idled
for good—though still
you keep driving
in real time, forfeit
this untitled terrain,
glimpsed only once,
prematurely, before
you were ripe
to figure anything.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 3.
Brad Clompus lives in the Boston area. His poems, essays, and fiction have been published in such journals as Cimarron Review, Denver Quarterly, Moon City Review, North American Review, The Pinch, and Post Road.
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