Beyond the clouds’ crumpled page, a winter water-
mark of sun. The houses lean on the wind, another
transient body of wind within weather, an unbound
spill of smoke, soot to smudge these hills. A clutter
gates the raw fence of wood, woods where trees rake
air for what a wind can carry—dust, leaves, paper
scraps which tell no story but that of tangled flight.
The hills ring, delimit a sense of risk. Seen, here,
from overhead, asphalt’s conduit sends and receives,
retrieves passing messages, overheard whispers
we cannot quite decipher. All along its edges
are scattered cast-off rags, torn strips of rubber.
Joshua Harmon’s poems have appeared in Verse, Colorado
Review, Indiana Review, and Slope.