This is just for me.
Hay-light. A place for the fork and shovel.
More than a time of year: ammonia smells, the loose
spotted country. You will ruin it, talking.
A wad of Nez Perce muddled by the flap of a trapper’s cap.
The trough under an elm-ish blanket.
Your blouse with green embroidered grebes
still hung from a nail in the barn wood
where your sugary core got pressed,
where the years sloughed off in confusion
Luke Brekke’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in New England Review, The Missouri Review, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. He has been a work fellow at the Frost Place Poetry Seminar and is a reader for New England Review.