So maybe to region here means without

inflection, not just to moderate
our voices, but to flatten out entirely

even as the horizon doesn’t, as the land never
will, to make plains & expanse into subtle,

a somewhere only cut-through
by road, to become a prairie where only

wildness can call itself Trillium or Bed
-straw or Little Bluestem. Name itself

Moraine or Kettle or Till. When did we
stop wanting untamable, that wind-strewn,

that tousled, some ramble? Stop wanting
at all? Again in the car to where we never

meant to stay & keep staying, another
return paved through so much wide-open.





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