Lines of the Lark
tight marks in the earth—dashes
I close a circle of rose rocks
the wheat warned me—the Lark is lurking
its wings wrinkle on my back
heaviness spirals on my neck
my crown of prairie-fire falls to the ground
I pretend to know Morse code
because, because I am staccato and fragmented
my hands carry red dirt and the names
that will never grow here again
shocks of sapphire spit
gasoline water runs from my lips
my cerise breath swells and breaks
do larks even come to Oklahoma?
meadowlark, skylark, what a lark!
do not sing unless I say I will listen
where were the scissor-tails?
the lines the Lark left still ring metallic
the old world billows but I cannot fly