And as you drive by, it is the washed grey

sky that milks green out of the fields, makes

tar roads gritty and wet underneath. Here is

barn country. Red and cracked white. I have

often sped past it, I have often felt the heart, too,

recede. Someone tells me, “Here is everywhere,”

so I pick among the pigs, try to know my own

name. Am I silos, still as daybreak? Am I horses

tossing their mane?