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