Leveler Poetry Journal
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Sounds like leaving


Blue island of landing strip

the only night light acceptable

in Lutheran fields


patchworked by day

in soybeans and corn,

pious in their plaid utility.


Beveled earth is the

staid corduroy yoke of history,

waves of no water


while young men throw

down their Budweisers

to shatter in defiance of nothing

in parking lots, in pickups


chains across all the old doors.


Silos lean into a different wind

that sounds like leaving,

a motor hum growing silent

with each further hill.


Dust dances like a devil.

It always does. 




Sara Fitzpatrick Comito