wildscape. literary journal

Landscape With Exit Wound
by Jeffery Allen Tobin

The sky is low again,
pressing its wet hand against the hills.
Someone left a truck in the field last winter,
and now the grass grows around its carcass.

A crow hops along the rusted hood,
considering the wreckage.
It must think—
what is the use of this thing,
with its hollowed-out bones,
its absence of flight?

Somewhere, a man stands in his doorway,
looking at his hands.
The day is half-spent,
and still, he cannot decide
whether to make something or undo something.

The street smells of burned coffee,
the last hiss of rain against pavement.
Everything insists:
now is the only hour.
Now, before the engine gives out,
before the light spills itself into dusk.

In the distance, the crow lifts.
A wingbeat,
a dark stroke against the sky’s pale canvas.
The truck stays put.
The grass leans deeper into its forgetting.

about the author // Jeffery Allen Tobin