The sun fades like a lost civilization behind me. Stubbled fields that once held
the forgotten artifacts of the dead kaleidoscope past the windows of my car.
How many mouths still sing the hollow songs of roots? How many
bones still hold up the corridors of the earth? The road runs straight
for miles; there is no place to veer. The long shadows of round bales crawl over empty mounds toward home.
Kip Knott's writing and photography has recently appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Tiny Seed Literary Journal. His book of poetry, Tragedy, Ecstasy, Doom, and so on, is available from Kelsay Books. More of his work can be accessed at kipknott.com.