Roadside grasses are seen
to vary, stem and thistledown:
pale straw or light brown,
gray brown and transom green.

Spinning wind into something vatic:
seven synchronized giantesses.
A thought only rarely coalesces
from the brain’s static.

You think you’re always thinking,
but try to form a sentence
while you’re driving. A fence.
A pylon. A form of blinking,

like a quasi-town that won’t so much
as marry a Dairy Queen
and an El Rey Del Tacos. Lean
times times out of touch

equals areas where lives
depend more clearly on the wages
of atmospheric averages;
that’s how prayer survives.