Kildare

The sensation of home can only be impossible.
It holds no meaning but for one.
Each individual open to no closure
and as the pavement changes
from a dark charcoal gray to a sparkling
gem dotted street paved with golden skin
as wheels still turn
wearing the ground thin
as my patience for prompt responses
disintegrate as fast as the children
fly.

Midwestern Roots

I've learned of myself,
through fields of old snow
dotted praries
three legged dogs that leap at hawks,
pale taupe wings over my windshield
dashing for themselves.
What it was,
the realization,
the eye-opening term
was how great this all is.
How the darkness swallows my headlights,
the support of a bridge glistens rows
and rows, three eyes high
as the smell of hay and soy rise higher.
But these forgotten places are below the radar,
forgotten with good purpose
because I never should have discovered them
even if they helped me.