I never met the girls from Oklahoma—
___the names from five o’clock. I saw the crushed
grain elevators where they slept, their children
___filthy, eyes to the ground,
gathering hail like seashells.
I tapped on the glass, sure they could hear me
under their homes and schools
___ crushed by the oxygen-rich air—
the circus elephant fishing
___ through green clouds, the feral horse
___ ___ in a pirouette.
It reminds me of a janitor in high school
___ ___ slipping on ice cubes
9th graders would side-arm down the hall.
___ ___ His torso twisted and legs shot
horizontal; the kids laughed—that spring
___ ___ day spilt light and is often one
___ I pray for.
Still the girls are difficult to imagine, the names
___ listed, intertwined: Sarah, Monica,
Jessie, Elizabeth—but they were there, serene like the bog
___ bodies of Denmark, resting near
yawned luggage, near the school yard blooming
___ cotton candy insulation, term papers
damp and tossed like spent gauze—
___ ink running veins across the page.