Never was the land together,
cohesive, an uninterrupted mass
of soil, rock, sand, grass
all bound in a harmonious package, leather
spread-eagled in one faultless piece.
Always were places disparate.
Sky unbroken, but land split
and ponded, rivered. Water reached
out from every fissure, issuing
lacklessly. The ground’s appendages
multiplied, fresh edges
made into shores and ocean chewing
into them eagerly. In the beginning,
this wasn’t a big problem for
people. They swam well, explored
by boat. At length, the constant crossing
of distances somehow seeped
into their bodies, their cores. They’d say,
“It can’t have always been this way,”
and dream of land gathered up in a heap.

My first time on a plane,
I look out the plexiglass
pane of the window, see
the grid of fields beneath.
The only sense I can make
of the latticed land: that here
are the United States, shaded
and flat as they are on a map.
Rosy brown, green, taupe
patches far below do resemble
cartoony illustrations of
countries, cities inserted
cleanly into regions
like toothpicks into bread.

Thin oil for the cold car.
Paint peeling off the Subaru.
Leaves on the windshield wipers,
chocks behind the wheels.

Trout feeding in the current,
creek steaming in the cold;
we stood in the willow brake,
highway out behind us,
looking for the moose we’d seen.

(Transylvanian, a Softneck Silverskin/Artichoke garlic)
Teeny Biaggio is twelve years old.
Her mother brought her to my farm to interview me
for a paper for her sixth grade English class.
We sat outside, on the deck.