The Grid

The news anchor mentions the north-east tract

and the air in my lungs turns to diesel and hay.

It’s a physical pull, a sharp, sudden fact

of a place I worked so hard to trade away.

I remember the tower, the rusted-out height,

and the rungs of the ladder that hummed in the wind.

We climbed through the dark for a glimpse of the light

where the corn and the highway and horizon pinned.

Now they’ve strapped a few towers to the top of the tank

to catch every signal and beam it through space.

The silence we climbed for is gone to the bank,

and there isn't a shadow left in that place.