Two Poems

Gunshot Conjure


              on gravel roads

that wind through the guts

of Adair County,

into hills, red, yellow,
              whatever color

autumn is—trailers

on the hillsides,

or in valley bends,

              avocado-green, sky-blue,

whatever color trailers are—

Grandpa drove,

until all I could see

              was sycamore and oak

fog-thick in every direction

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.