The metal pegs loosed

under oaks and buckeyes

a folly. A hundred of us released.


The skylarks chose death. We squatted

where red-bellied birds had feathered

rained jet on corn-gold territories.


Our patois desire for survival

undreamed our filthy constellations

too much looking glass. Our bodies


poised at tipping point perceived threat.

We didn’t ask for this continent.

And yet—