Seven years and half
a cornstalk high, I
used to run a random
rout eyes aground all
over a quarter in corn, till
in a green snarl of snakes
and ladders I raced with time
out of mind, trying to keep
the furrows unfamiliar, to undo
the plowers’ plan. Soon I spelled
myself into a hazel of hunches,
one who could, without telling
on tips of token trees,
home out where I came in.
When all true notions worked,
then home was a happening,
and where I simply stood
a little unlikelihood.
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