Prairie Love Song

It’s funny to be praising you now.
I spent years trying to run 
to your edges, that wide
unreachable. Sometimes, 
there was a fence or 
fly-bitten soccer net,
and then just flat field
stretching on and out
in every direction. 
When you were cold, you were
bone-chilling.
We felt everything in our nostrils
crystalize. There was no
bottom to the sky when it 
burst into cold fire
in the early afternoon.
It was Spring when beetles
collected in the windowsills,
and the ceiling tiles
collapsed into the kitchen.
When you grew hot, it was
like sticking your whole
head inside an oven. 

A person could live
and die by your
slow cycle of seasons, your
slight crosshatch of minor
streets and then nothing, again,
but rail tracks
in dusk.

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