Half-past morn, the town is on fire.
Sunlight had sloughed its way through
Greentree Apartment Homes, past the sickly
porch lights, the water tower tending attention.
This is my town, my DNA on the eaves,
my flock of goats heckling the fence on 64th,
and him, having known no hills, no 7-Eleven
to mind, claims the town despite the blackberry
reaped from me. My babe-barbed heart.
In the aureus hours of desire, the sky unbuttons
its jeans. We linger into the Eden, the plow
ever-so handsome, plow and heave, plow
and heave, the gawk and hum. Slow
like that. Nobody has ever truly risen
the way my town has, vernal and terribly
livid—bluing air, the blue trust of Priuses,
blue Grocery Outlet inside me.
Arch your back, says the town. I do.