Currency

As in a net. Headfirst

on the prairie through the

spring, seeing

nothing and noising—

blue invasive

grasses, things too

close to creaseless

thought. Lumps

of river rising even

when I see no rain.

Nobody likes to look

away. The spill carries

no message but I think

with it. In plain

cover I eat wet

matter with other

small agencies,

depositing my last

mold of earth once

more. There

is nowhere to go

to. All the sawmill

dollars I found I

spent how all I saw

left and left its

self unsayable.