In the country's saddle, lowered by portly rumps
run filthy freckled kids whom Jesus saves
and paper kites come skittering over the roofs
or spell the names of God in the windy trees
In open spaces, frilled by banks of snow
threaded by fences made with loaves of stone
where casement windows shake with flyblown paint
curled sharp and flaked beneath the spider's silk
in the low-slung middle where the sun is cracked
and smeared in dullest orange across far fields
where barns and silos point to someplace else
run filthy freckled kids whom Jesus saves
and paper kites come skittering over the roofs
or spell the names of God in the windy trees
In open spaces, frilled by banks of snow
threaded by fences made with loaves of stone
where casement windows shake with flyblown paint
curled sharp and flaked beneath the spider's silk
in the low-slung middle where the sun is cracked
and smeared in dullest orange across far fields
where barns and silos point to someplace else
