December 2016 - Comments Off on Cole Sherlock Hersey

Cole Sherlock Hersey


For Ali 


Drinking white wine
in a water bottle
beside the sandstone
Obelisk of Ramses
smiling at the clouds
in the sun
as home beside the river.


Red flight. Oceans in its body, coaxing
its current past our car.
a tide to move
in and out of sight.
It goes. Like any other.

Nebraska Corn

No terrain. Straight roads at a speed limit of eighty miles an hour. The telephone cables follow us through the farmland. Through the corn. The corn, a blanket of green that doesn’t stop rolling. It passes through each town and road, covering what once was open grassland. And through Nebraska, the corn goes. America’s best idea. Nebraska, onenote sustained for four-hundred and thirty miles of the 80. When we get out of the car, it’s quiet, except for the highway in the distance. No one talks. The corn is still now, like one piece of plywood, resting on the ground. Not able to see the next town, or even the road, through the fields. There is a bull wandering in the grass and trees, unchanged, grazing, carrying the blades slowly into its mouth. A small gust of wind comes, cooling. The bull flicks his tale. It’s just us, the car and the bull at the gas station. We drive. Meet Iowa. It’s note is the same as Nebraska. The sun fades. We listen to the radio. Des Moines lets us sleep near its river of the same name. It’s getting cold.

Published by: in Issue 1 : Fall 2016, Poetry, Volume 73

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