Currency
As in a net. Headfirst
on the prairie through the
spring, seeing
nothing and noising—
blue invasive
grasses, things too
close to creaseless
thought. Lumps
of river rising even
when I see no rain.
Nobody likes to look
away. The spill carries
no message but I think
with it. In plain
cover I eat wet
matter with other
small agencies,
depositing my last
mold of earth once
more. There
is nowhere to go
to. All the sawmill
dollars I found I
spent how all I saw
left and left its
self unsayable.
