Rural Ghosts
The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.
Baked into the sky,
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.
Dander creaks on dry porches.
Fallow rooms open wardrobes
in a denim haze.
Homesteaders planted a light here,
then at days end,
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled,
table-tops charged.
Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed,
the Brylcream shine of city sights
until she is swept away.
Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray
on a skewed field gate.
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