by May Hong
omaha, just three hours
shy of the dead geographical center
of contiguous u.s.
come march, everything is encrusted
in a coarse sepia, all vague
and far away.
we passed a splayed out elk on our search for the best
nowhere, and i made you turn for a second look at my first
“actual roadkill.” “you sicko.”
later, from the middle
of a field so dry that our shoe prints
left in it fine powder,
we watched as the aged sky quietly
tore itself to pieces
in a single chilled outbreath.