Alfonso

Lục bát.

Alfonso

 

 

The sun blooms and we’re gone

again, me and Alfonso, sail-

ing past the beat-up mail

boxes outside of Dale County.

Corn and soybeans, ready

for harvest, make easy prey for

passing birds: the stalks more

eager to stretch up toward the sky,

aching, thirsty only

for that which bathes our ride. Hollers

erupt from the crows cir-

cling the fields, but they’re behind

us now. In winter you would find

ice kissing the cold drive, pavement

sealed in the throes of bent

adoration, frost meant to snare

the road till spring. But where

snowfall threatens to tear the world

into submission, old

Alfonso and I hold it cap-

tive, flying along at

the speed of sound, flattening the

wind beneath his wheels.

Reviews

[SkinlessFrank]

you have got it, crisp as the autumn wind...I can feel the road