Two poems

[broz]

Heaving golden ground

sends up wind and radio

past trucks and endless roads.

They grind the wheat in rows.

 

I cannot weave. This long

straight way is all that runs

through FM seas of rock

and whistling breeze-bent stalks.

 

Details blur away

beneath the looming blue

of Canada – below

I race to somewhere over

 

our calm northern border.

Time grates stubborn on

and on along the grid

of roads that twist to meet

 

along a golden seam.

Down the route I spiral,

Each transformation

takes me to a similar tile.

 

The rearview mirror moans.

That same expanse of blue

and gold is looming back,

its certainty of stone.

 

* * *

Our sex is but a rack of gears and wheels.
Its motives lie beneath. The work conceals
The engines that parade the marionettes
That act out our charades, our tête-à-têtes.
Our gender costumes them in blue and pink
To make a war apparent, lest we think
Those strings above, that wood hinging below,
Is somehow the same stuff, though we should know:
Others’ desires are not distant things;
Their wishes tug against all the same strings.
But hawks who call for wars, who love this game,
Get lost so deep they think we aren’t the same.
And once addicted, given to their way,
Would keep souls separate to serve their play.