In the fields behind
the slouched commissary, the wind wavers
against cedars. A woman in a puckered white dress
sells boudin and root beer to the migrant
workers and the wind warbles
and falls in a low pitch, almost like
yodeling against the blue.
I prefer spaces where you can
lose a quarter between the boards
of wooden dance floors, where you can light a match
after match trying to find it
between the slats. I have found comfort
in places below ground, smoke so thick
you couldn't see and brown sacks twisted
around Ushers' Green Stripe
and Popov. I've even found comfort
renting by the hour in the high yellow room.
One morning, I woke to the smell
of dead gar wrapped in newspaper. A summer
tanager lit on the vine post out front
and I could barely stand the beauty of it
against the river's flood plain.