Flying over whitecaps
and the uncertainty of opaque depths,
suddenly the blue dropped away
and I was speeding through the sterile mud
between the cornstalks, where wheat once grew.
You had said that you knew a place
and we stumbled back through the woods,
falling and thwacking our way through tangles of branches.
When we got to the river, all we found
were junk tires, a tree, and a ******.
Stalking off with a cigarette in my mouth
and one behind my ear,
I found myself back alongside the cornfield
and staring in
I discovered that the green of the corn was as cloudy and evasive
as the blue of the ocean
and guarded as many mysteries,
but they are quiet mysteries
and the pain that they hold
is a quiet pain.