We built a farm in Illinois

and the land delivered us,

nestled in hills of cedar and white oak,

railroad tracks bolted against a river

levee, floods of expectation.

I loved a farm in Illinois

and a Chicago woman who

whipped fallow fields into fruited plains,

brocades of lilac, wild artichokes,

sunflowers at the river’s edge.

We each thought we’d die

in a bone yard of native skulls

under high cirrus clouds.

Dry creeks in cold time

brittle Mississippi mud banks,

north winds that scorch fathers

who hoist Schlitz to a life resigned by

sons. If you pass this farm on white

oak hills in cool autumn sun,

perhaps having lost your way,

high-minded from Chicago,

listen for the wild boar’s snort,

the nighthawk’s screech at twilight,

a coy dog’s cry from the hollows,

while turkeys flock across country

lanes of dense Cadillacs.

At a farm in Illinois where dark oaks

weep at the riverbank

unleashing rains for a sad century,

a woman stands alone in a coffin

garden, a refugee from love.

Our life together broke

below the surface of things

and I fled a farm in Illinois.