Constitutional

poem #122

photo by the author

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Walking in the middle north 
the dark America flutters under me; 
I walk the permafrost 

between two towns listening 
for the crump of the eternal 
mandrake underground,

the red well under the tradition 
of a country, where the radix 
has its secret convoy of radicals 

circling against the old farmers 
and the automobiles that ply 
the dying skin of the big thing—

silver creatures circle too 
in the great above,
wait for their chance to land, 

wonder how they might achieve the nonchalance
of the terrestrial mysteries in their dance
and then to stop the dance

on turning ground
suddenly.

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