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Driving through Indiana,
creeks wriggle alongside the highway,
incidental,
like, "Oh yes,
someone used to wade there."
A knot of deformed trees,
almost too old fashioned,
remnants of a farm, discontinued merchandise.
But it's mostly lost streams,
weed-trees and a loneliness that hints
of automatic two-car garage doors and zoysia grass;
small, well-kept lawns and sudden streets,
and identical houses around a factory
that sprawls the way small colleges used to spread themselves out:
lawns, flowerbeds, groundsmen with mowing machines.
The quiet authority of culture.
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