Flash Gordon in Iowa

I will show you how, in the spring,

the sidewalks here

look like a crossword puzzle resting under

a glass of lemonade,

in the park by the spanning bridge

where the bicyclist drowned

and we would eat catfish and pepper (and jam)

with our clothes full of wasps

and drink warm cans of beer

and float in the closed-down

country club swimming pools

beneath the fingers of the moon

and walk in the dark down the alleys in our snowsuits

to watch television through other families' windows

and how our tracks in the snow here

look like a crossword puzzle resting on

a pitcher of spilt milk