Running in fields
of corn, or winter
Deer in the wheat.
Heavy boot down
The wire buzzing,
Through the gap.
Door busted in
The drafted cabin,
Stored past traps
Old but alive still,
With tetanus teeth,
Enough to kill.
Teenagers know
No trespassing.
We are born to it.
But the land belongs
Only to the beasts,
And blackhawks,
And those who
Can defend it.
While they can.
A revolving port
Of barbs and
Constitutions.
Shoot and run.
Bandages. Run.
Red. Again.
You run the dust
Of deserts, but
The long grasses
Brush your belly,
Stirring the insides
Pounding.
Demanding
You return.
To what you left
-In Kansas.