We moved to farm country,
but remained urban brained.
Bus exhaust and compact humanity
drumming in our heads like rain.
Driving straight-edged roads
under forever skies
inhaling nothing or bullshit
the curvature of the horizon lost beyond
broken fields thick with black earth
Fertility in stasis;
perched on the precipice
and we slant-wise, wide-eyed
What edge are you walking? Precipice