The Burn
Stalks crackled
where cars threaded the slow-burn.
Straw, insect legs and fumes
got into the lungs of trucks,
made them talk backwards
like the devil on Sundays.
Long dead farmers leave their tractors,
run across the highway
into abandoned barns.
Eventually the fire ate itself.
Hay wisps
floated away into forgetfulness.
No one burns the stubble now,
but the smoke can be seen
moving still under the corn
where the devil sullenly forks over
long-blackened reeks.
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