S.S.C.F

The trees on the ridge cut back
against the wide cleared plain of vision
and new growth, trees thin
and markedly straight
just trunks, like pencils
standing up, bare stalks
and the brush of leaves
on the top branches like a flowering...

A few white butts
scribble the dirt beneath the bench.
They look clean--tight rolled cylinders
of white paper.
The guard comes twice to ask me what;
he stays in his truck;
his face is sour like old sausage.
I am meeting the bondsman. I give
the guard the name. He owns
the names.

The surprise of a crow
rising immense and ink black
from the low field--wave of his soft wings,
and then a dozen more
and the low sun out of a crack in clouds.
The truck crawls the perimeter
covering sight lines.

You might think they
have some secret in there
--some treasure--
so careful and dour it is,
so tight
with sight lines and perimeters,
almost sacred, and you lose
everything to approach,
You give your name and your reason.
The hair blows against my cheek
from the west. That's the sun
settling, not yet down.
It warms my face, makes me squint.
Razor wire in silver curls
along the wall in straight sun.

The white lines of the parking spaces.
Two flags endlessly pluffing.
Poles, thin shadows.
Waiting a long time
the world all wrong here,
what I thought the world was
the heart of it here, what
was always there. I am being
videotaped as I wait.
They own that; I'm subscribed
in their world. They don't like me
walking around. My notebook and
wandering make me
unpredictable. So I wave my arms.
I'm not accused of a crime
but can they tell me what to do, in small
ways, in large ways, these are the rules
hard kernel in the tooth, the bolt
slung into the wall,
here where there are no exceptions.