Posts By: Kinzy Janssen

No crops to sow. No shocks. No cobs, no corn’s
down floss. No cock’s crow. No storms

to grow. No cool to morn. No blood to spot; no flocks
of cotton bolls to lop. No flocks. . .

The orange-and-brown-on-light-olive ottoman
beside the truck on the side of the road
next to the gas station out on the mesa
is apparently for sale. Pathetic, no, but funny,
and funnier still when we stop to buy it for five dollars, 

When the last rifle-shots of the season ring out
across the river—swollen thick with rain and mud,
moving forward as everything must—

When I am in a strange place,
the pain of our separation is conceptual.
I sit and play at guessing
how far away the thunderhead,

When you walk over
the earth, it asserts
itself: “Here. Here.