Kansas coos me into its wheat.
Done with direction, I follow the lightning,
God’s arrows insisting even the desolate
can be a destination.
In the black and white of a winter dawn
a train zippers the wet land
to a sky clouded with intention.
It looks more like a photograph
than a photograph resembles the moment
it captures, its frame diverting, its filter
slanting truths. Say I make of this a photo—
what would the evidence show?