Prairie Poetry   

Driving is idle time to traipse length
at speeds of my choosing. Limitless
plain on either side-- I can't tell you

how empty this is; the road's another
place to fall into. Inside, an undersea
of displacement. The rubber ball

returns from ground, you come to me--
glasslike, hidden in low Lombardy
poplars, rushed from grass. Amnesiac

territory is made transparent; drifts
of Christmas, the black tea beside me
now yours again. Crucial construction

is done in hard sun. One limb at a time
a private duplicate of you is raised
from rags, recast, restored to tissue.

  Diana Adams
  Copyright © 2006 Diana Adams
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