I Come from Indiana
I come from Indiana, where the only thing to eat
is clouds. I was born in a snowstorm, the blizzard of ‘78,
and like snow I come back every year, shaking my hair,
dancing to the slowest music, full of whole notes.
I come from Indiana, where the shoulders of the ground
grow hairy with grasses, where anthills swell up
into heat and the smell of tar shimmering over roofs.
I walk out wearing nothing but a huge coat of corn,
I vanish into the horizon but never leave, like a line
of highway traffic, I throw handfuls of myself into air,
the particles of me gather below streetlights like mayflies,
die in the afternoon then gather again, night after night.
I come from Indiana where faces grow plump in my dreams
like lettuce in soil and good men in towns pour oil
into mowers a few feet from wild deer, sniffing the wind,
hidden behind trees. I come from Indiana, where all the stories
about me are true: the day I stole that policeman’s horse, the day
I drove my Honda blindfolded into a tornado,
the day I spray painted cellar door, cellar door
over and over on my girlfriend’s cellar door until her father
chased me with a burning log into the woods, where he couldn’t find me
because I was making love to his daughter under a bridge in a thunderstorm.
I come from Indiana, and when I’m there I enter the air like a teenager
diving from a boat, the hard blade of his torso slicing the lake
while his mother, out of earshot, calls him home.
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