The borders between us are largely
an invention, though one can cross
from one state to the next and in
some way know the world has changed.
It is a particularly perplexing moment
when I realize that no roads end,
though one can be surprised by
sudden turns and the misplaced hayfield.
Rolling westward into Kentucky,
somewhere off of I-64, there is a
sudden vacancy in the road as a
bridge spans the most unusual
valley, a sharp and verdant V
anchored by what might be called a
river or an errant thought that drifts
across the blue hills and blue smoke
of this land. I turn off in favor of the
black post-and-board fences and
low-slung drystone walls, late-summer
flowers and tired tobacco barns.
These are farm and pasture lands,
not entirely devoid of surprise but
largely unaccustomed to it.
Even the trill of a warbler, slightly
out of season, tips the delicate balance
of slow time, as if it were embarrassed
by the momentary silence that follows;
an inappropriate laugh during a
serious lecture, the awkward applause
in the pause before a concerto is complete,
so that we are made to be aware
for an instant
of our presence.
c. 2012, Martin A. Bartels (working draft)
Part of my new collection, "Unlanguage."
