"Untitled"

The land like a composition,

Its grid of tones,

Patches of tone,

Of inscribed circles

Like pie graphs charting

The march of progress; circular fields

Watered by satellite.

Their concentric grooves glisten in

The morning sun, freshly watered.

This topography of artifice,

So calculated, sprawling to feed the sprawl.

Lines like a map’s idyllic projections,

A map-maker’s dream.

The silver thread of a creek,

The wandering of an ink-dark canyon.

A lone train passes beneath us,

Quiet and graceful from these heights.