by Scott Porter
On that night,
The fields moved slow
and exhaled a tremulous whisper,
the engine-hum of an evening
on a quiet drive into
the dim of our own lights.
And I in the back seat,
head pressed against the cold,
watch the cloth of the earth rub thin
under the blur of soft forever lines
until the sky opens like a garage door.
Scott Porter is from Kearns, Utah. He is pursuing an MA at Brigham Young university with an emphasis in modernist poetry.