in vast spaces
inside the flood wall
under the train trestle 
on a bicycle riding 
     the streets of Paducah
crowded in a bed with siblings
joining up (with the scouts)
always near 
     the banks of the Ohio
then far away in the Blue
     Ridge with Father Judge
kneeling in a pew of belief 
on a mountain seeing everything
down the hatch of college
swimming in waves of prepositions
in a house with bovine windows
walking stumbly fields
holding the hands of children
in a classroom in a school in a cow pasture
living in the lane of Know-It-All
then broken like a dropped plate
tipped over in a smashed rocker
hearing the voices of offspring
in a barn where she dances with love
gardening like mad
sleeping in cornfields 
     to keep the deer away
on the road to shows
in a place where writing occurs
drinking from the spring
     of further offspring
on the path to slow down
sitting with comrades on Fridays  
     in front of Lil’ Jumbos
reading the pages of wordsmiths
leaning in to hear what you said
squinting to see what you have
holding a dish of nonsense
bending down to the force of time
hobbling on cobblestone 
outside the floodwall
in a narrowing hall