While the town slept nestled in its April
haze we unslept
and headached with the night’s
cheap wine crawled into
the beaten silver heirloom both
through the driver’s side
door The radio buzzed a gentle
static and the windows
shook and dropped ever slightly
over each unbothered pothole
dimpling the backroad asphalt
Parked in a runoff ditch the car’s
insistent humming the shrill call
of roosters the cool rattle
of each early cicada composed
the white noise thrum of morning
while the bright landscape of the earth
reassembled like blocks after
the premorning fuzz pixelated
The world not yet loaded.
Caylie Herrmann is an MFA graduate of Eastern Washington University. Herrmann’s previous work can be found in journals such as the Minnesota Review, Burntdistrict, and Noble/Gas.