Not Winnifred the town we couldn’t see.
The fox we weren’t sure was a fox but might
have been if not a mutt. Not the way we—
the air conditioning—not a fight
but cordially, frequently turning on and off.
Each farm lay more abandoned than the next
but curiously well tended; neat but left.
There was a house we didn’t pass that’s fixed
itself nevertheless as seen by one looking
back—seen through, its thin frame all pane-
less windows so it’s that day—sun blinking,
light cloud and blue we’re accustomed to, fine,
alone, impossibly far the porous house
as we drove on, impervious.
This appeared in the June 2013 issue.