Winner of the 2011 Lana Turner Discovery Contest
                    Judge: Jane Miler




That you should leave
and that you should come back is the general rule
and miracle of this place     a small thrush, the long tail, not
a tail, it’s on a bird, a lever then, a wing     the shadow

butter-knifing, prying, the edges
and the small rough balls that were
the berries and were red or getting there     unsteady turned

in wind, unsteady colored in a light that tends toward black

and turning white at last   


the drive-in movie: it
was too contrived to last     someone could turn
grass to hay there, feed it to some animal      some things
turned sweet and rotten there, no screen where the machines

turned shadows, no screen for growing grasses or for the knotty tops
uncut and seeding    


                                  train scene     the boat     the car
radio, the drive out, the music follows, he turns pictures

in the light, she turns to look at them and sees
her picture, all that looking and the music
turning as the pictures move   


                                                       these are
the shadows filling up the time between
the fenceposts, filling up the time between the shadows

of the fenceposts     a sort of cemetery now, the names
and the birds printed only by their weight on grasses, the thickest
blades will only hold the smallest birds, and only

if there is no wind     the place for pressure, there, reflection

turns the lighter bird, it doesn’t smell of plants or feathers
or of prey, or of a place at least where projection tends

to make things turn away as dust to somewhere
else, the music,


              if he leaves a house

one way or another the spectator should see him come back in another place
and she, she woke up in a strange room, outside
a fog      if it had been her heartbreak they would have put it to her

in the second person: love, and see the break


In the morning if you’re in the driveway you could see the whole road    from the window
you could notice that the hills seem gone, back now to the barn rotting and the rotting

in the base of the barn, nest in a silo, nest in a
windowframe, nest in the chimney, heartbeat in the unravel

of the nest, in the green string
in the nest, through this whole wide winter the tall grass turns

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