Three Poems

Chatter

There was once a glacier here. Now it has become Nebraska. Which meant “flat water.” Which tells something of time, thus something of death. If we live believing the sky meets ground, somewhere— where are we talking? More importantly, we are still talking about Nebraska. From a Patio Weather brings a scraping: animal this, skin swells shoulders, shoulders. Moreover, I sand brooms. That Color Should Be Given Choice Breathing, I ache something frost. That runners should molt hate away. Sunshine quilts older homes blue.