Indiana Problem

The river was shallow

and muddy and its smell

of dead stuff was over-

powered by the smell

of the corn syrup plant,

which belched out

yellow smoke that smelled

like burnt carpet, a steady

fist that punched our

faces with no at every

inhale. Winter was one

steel trap after another,

each day within it

a frozen angry run

past the courthouse into

a waiting Chrysler wagon,

girl scout Christmas hymns

inside the lights, and

every single window a

space into the thousands

of separate hearts of the city,

which were also closed

to us, hands shielding

a secret getaway, floating

toward ceilings over

and over before vanishing.