Volta

It won't take much for me to glide mad
forth across this flat wild terrain again:
maybe it's a glint across someone else's
news flash: a fox flash, let's say, its brush-
tail tonguing risen grass; or I'm tending
a violet tangle on the porch: perilla,
magilla, dousing it daily, and then I'll take a
walk: one foot and the other; or mount
the scooter, push off, a sole spinning
wheels across the manifest frontier.
You can drive here for hours
with no hairpin turn; but me,
it seems all I do is turn—turn, turn.

Copyright © 2010 Christina Pugh All rights reserved
from Crab Orchard Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission