To Scale

by Tyler Meier

The whippoorwills invented you. 
That summer, there was a careful measure
of muddy river that you pulled like a leash through the lowlands,
like you and the country were a dog.
That summer, someone twisted all the maples
in their sockets.  You renamed the season
studio apartment and made it part of your big city.
I drove my name through it like a bus.
What is not a passenger?  What is the penalty
when the rent is due on what you believe in,
and you stuff the mailbox full of lilies?

Night is the biggest animal I know.

Night says Let’s use this cornfield
as a mission statement.  Night says
Here’s a little starlight, ground lovers.

You write your name over and over
in the sky that is a crypt full of pain,
that is a technical history of almost
anything.  Sap-Moon the soapbox we were never
not on. Sap-Moon like a song we sing
to the windows in our houses. 
What a pocket does to the spirit:
memorizes it
in the language of stowaways.  All summer you said:
Tell me this is a big country 

I gave you a mason jar full of rain.
Here is your crystal ball, I said.
Tell me what will become of me

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