Two-Tone Landscape

Stopped once. It was a little strip
of building by the road, Midwest.

Midwest, mid-sex. In the middle
of America, antipodes. Poplars

flanked the street. Yes, the street
had tree-lined flanks. Dry poplars.

And in-between, a view, sky blue.
An American here backs down,

backs back, stumbling into a sweet
pea-sized infinite. Withers

to the height of a grass blade,
to seed asleep in form. Roots

will grow and conform and reach
the alum-tainted water and those doors

with their polished sashes. Air, dust,
lust to phantom a low orange moon

hanging in the sky, another rock.

Michael Heller (© 2006)