Driving with the Dead: Poems

A Transplant Leaves Minnesota, 1973

7 A Transplant Leaves Minnesota, 1973 Miles and miles and miles behind me, grain elevators mocked my retreat, stark sentries in my rearview mirror. I lost them at dusk when I drove in to the first ripples of Wisconsin. The bowl of heaven arched infinite over the featureless plains—blazed a searing blue or transformed to a gyrating beast throwing bolts, turning loose its spawn, tearing down what was built up on the vast pastures. I remember they dragged me to the cellar, I clutched my son as the herd stampeded above, how we came to the light and found rubble, pink house planks strewn for miles. I gleaned the remains of my life, turned toward the hills that give me help, give me shelter, hold the sky where it belongs. ...