Currency

As in a net. Headfirst
on the prairie through the
spring, seeing

nothing and noising—
blue invasive
grasses, things too

close to creaseless
thought. Lumps
of river rising even

when I see no rain.
Nobody likes to look
away. The spill carries

no message but I think
with it. In plain
cover I eat wet

matter with other
small agencies,
depositing my last

mold of earth once
more. There
is nowhere to go

to. All the sawmill
dollars I found I
spent how all I saw

left and left its
self unsayable.

Source: Poetry (April 2024)