The bridge from West Virginia to Ohio
is the mercury glass color of Oz,
but here the magic is a melancholy one,
corroded and coal-bled.
On the side of the road: twin fawns,
white spots like wildflowers on their flanks.
I never pray, but I ask God to keep them safe,
to find their mother…………….to lead them home.
The gray-green membrane between spring and summer
is my event horizon……………..and I envy all things
from the Corona Borealis to the rat’s accordion ribcage,
flexible as wings.
I’d like to transpose myself with the Ironweed,
to assume its tall, graceful stem,
its slender lean,
its violet diadem—
and it can have me.