Dust is frightening. It hangs in the air, slow motion above a wheat field, the sun in particle light. It’s the vanishing of it that frightens me the most. Could it sink and never return? Could the crows freeze midair and never return to motion? Fragility in movement. I imagine death seeking the town like a fog—does it roll?—over another empty lot, so many of them vacant, but what does the vacancy mean when we know nothing of darkness?
More questions: if I were to build a swing from this town to another country, would they accept me as their own? Why do we still believe in borders? Wouldn’t a field feel more colorful in spring? Do you understand what I’m saying? A field only seems odd between tall buildings and I’m a field in the eyes of a deer terrified by bulbs of light traveling across a dark road, not understanding how the sun doubled in its attack.
Larry Eby is the author of two books of poetry, Flight of August, winner of the 2014 Louise Bogan Award from Trio House Press, and Machinist in the Snow, ELJ Publications 2015. His work can be found in Forklift, Passages North, Fourteen Hills, Thrush Poetry Journal, and others. He is the editor in chief of Orange Monkey Publishing, a poetry press in California.