nothing but this continent
intent on its dismay—
hands, etc. bandaged,
a torn petticoat fringed
with lace, roseate frozen
fingers, or elsewhere
feet wrapped in burlap
scuffing new snow

after the indigo of their tunics
seeps back into the soil
this spring, the several springs’
dulling thaw and incidental greenery

what marks they made were
harrowed out by those who settled,
so set themselves against the land

whether to keep the land
open to passage
or parcel it to the plow
Benton and Everett argued

“English tartars,” some said,
white savages to plunder the trade,
“only farmer and tradesman stabilize”

his head raised slightly
the dying woodsman
views the open plains,

“flat water” squalls
spilling stiff grasses
into the small shade a stand
of scrub trees gives his end

“huge skulls and whitening
bones of buffalo
were scattered everywhere”

the Conestoga’s canvas
straining to the wind,
the plow’s first bite,
the first indenture
of the rutted road,
crossties set down,
oil, asphalt glittering
quartz aggregate to the sun

the harrow’s bright discs
crumble the damp shine
of the new furrow,
the wind dulls and sifts
grassland into dust

two days in the storm cellar,
wet rags to their faces,
the slatted door impacted
with wet rags, dowery linens

strange light at the cyclone’s
onset, a