Garin Cycholl

from prairied

I speaks for the Mississippi basin;
the oracle, a shallow well 9 mi. SW of Rafetown

in my middling age, I have become quick—
quick to notice the bent boards under my bed
quick to notice the soil bent to light
quick to notice the shortstop’s bend, his
loss of step “to the hole”

the Atrizine River flows into the bone and stones of me,
a gallon of bleach dumped down a shallow well;
the dead world flat against my dead eye—
the prairie in me accelerates, the story of lungs
gone to seed down into the great slop sink of the Republic

a simpleton with my
lumpy breast and dead
cat “everywhere is
Dakota”

I never met a
frog I didn’t
no greek
no greek
no greek
can
prairie ’s
this

quick, prophet! invasive
and local       your god’s
eye—his reflection
of a shadow
in the pond,
or the snake
in slow crawl
along the foundations;
trim your own eye to the world

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