in August

I should’ve lain down
in the fields, in August
pulled into the turn-off
and left the car, idle
in the bare dirt,
I should’ve stepped into
the weeds
and followed the faint
trail, through the
wildflowers,
crossed the grass
to the dark hedge of trees
at the edge of the field
I should’ve fallen down
under the heat and the haze
I should’ve let the sweet scent
of dusk lull me down
back to the dirt, let the shadow
of the grass fall across my face
and sunk with it, down
into blue,

on the other side of morning
somewhere in Kansas
with the I-70 thundering
toward the hills, into Missouri

I should’ve woken
with dirt in my eyes
and burrowed my shoulders into the earth
to avoid the sun blowing across the plains
and listened to the receding echo
of something throwing itself, head-long
through the night