Shannon Tharp
Nebraska
A caravan’s mapless
dirge sulks into windmills’
listless spinning to a terror
of trees.*
I’ll turn the key, quarry
my worry to sleep under intricate
bridges. All it takes is you
taking my hand.*
The horizon’s plum bloomed
a colored dozen of the same kind and I
can’t stop thinking my sight: if it were
a city, I’d punch its lights out.*
Sad monuments, these reminders—
guns, paper, and tires—
are what you are. The string
I never tied around my finger.*
Few places are beautiful
in the dark, and you’re the first
I’ve seen. I don’t need light
to learn why.*
My heart in a hazard
of cars moves closer to
knowing you’re nothing
I can cry for, to.
