Sometimes

Sometimes I can hear Oklahoma in the marine layer.
Wrapped in a drift of horizon too thick to approach.

Sometimes a vapor of saddle harness couples
with tractor grease and corn shucks torn,

brown eggs in old straw and slanted blue cellar doors.
And I turn toward what I can’t see and see it.  See it

in the fleece of asphalt ocean, white-capped fields.
And a clapping of floured hands calling chickens

calling chickens, clapclapclap.  Handfuls of calling.
An old woman’s aproned dreams.  Sometimes.

 

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