sulking two lane highway

hereford and steer wave

sad, watery eyes, mouth

mouthfuls of bad manners.

this mid-sized sportscar

momentary thrill, quick

escape from mulch, ominous

future. a crimson valley

just beyond the fading idea

of intersection, karen silkwood’s pale

imprint—lifeless silos, limping

tallgrass. a town named crescent

struggling to recover after death

her murder wrought three decades

gone. speed zone—55, 45, then 35

now 25, pentecostal church, bowing

a-frames, tasty treet, jail, post

office, then 35, 45, 55, 70—a memory

withering on the roadside.