Ars Poetica for Kevin
This dovecote pushes god
to produce the universe,
splits a grain of sand
for a cave of light
so a coyote grows
in the median.
This dovecote
an inch from the ground
balances a cornbread
among five sparrows
and makes the poltergeist sound
of their gray feet against the gray leaves.
It starts the creepy hotel light
strobing onto the lawn across,
feels a massive tractor’s reflection
move slowly across the glassed-in
skeleton of the building
at the edge of a field,
where it pushes a girl’s cold thumb
into my sleep, slips
so as to fall, demands a place
where it might be okay to be weary,
and nudges you, scarf and all,
into my hands.
—Michelle Mitchell-Foust