I’ve moved to a new town of late—
a suburb place, hemmed by septentrion highways
& fields of corn that stretch the south queen’s way.
I’ve started running streets at night—
the side streets with no signs of enterprise.
But I hear as I run from pole to pole,
from wires slack then cresting overhead,
the hidden commerce coursing through the lines.
The streetlights hum like bugs,
the houses through their windows softly breathing
fan the sidewalks’ low moon-kindled lustre.
My shadow follows feet with lights their lead;
I am a gust, a wreck on the quiet rolling
of the waves that lap the treetops overhead.