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In Iowa morning, the blue foggy dawn
wraps the white-flaked streets
like a submerged snow globe
Hay bales that form snowmen across the
white plains, cornfields that melt
into oceans of snow
The gusts of ice: they skate across highways
before turning to fog
Like the last gasp of breath
passing through a frosted sieve
Have you ever seen
a cemetery in the snow
the tombs that rise all alone
where no grass or flowers grow?
In Iowa evening, the mist that sits
and drips through air, as if
we've all been shaken
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