Indiana

I find my salvation
on Indiana back roads
in the fog of their
kicked-up dirt clouds
something like a misty heaven

Ancient farmer
mounted on his rusted motor steed
chokes along in the heat
wiping the back of his neck
with a sweat-stained hanky
I love his crackled hands
I love his crackled face
He holds wisdom in his Wrangler pockets
planting time, the smell of rain
green bean fields of life
the feel of black-brown dirt
stuck to the bottom of your shoe

He knows these things
the mall kids don’t understand
as they hang on telephones
smoking cigarettes
in a high school parade
of pretended experience
(but they too hold mysteries—
mysteries of the back seats of cars
and songs lyrics I don’t know)

I travel deeper into Indiana
under a star splattered sky
wishing for something new to see
but not another fast food chain

A stark-white church
fills my soul
its peak cutting
into bird’s egg sky
it is comforting there
although it’s been years
since I’ve entered its doors
But I pass it by
Don’t want to reach backwards in time

I drive on, get lost
on a road with no name
where corn fields tower on each side
They talk to me
about black birds and grasshoppers and field mice
in a kind of chattering, happy song
they sing, beckoning,
”Go on further, further…”

Further into Indiana
through towns
made of simplicity and brick
general stores and hardwares
where girls still hunt boys
with fast cars
and cruising is illegal
but still allowed by the police
past long-forgotten cemeteries
with cows for neighbors
and I just don’t see another soul
for miles

Amish laundry billows in the wind
Plain cotton dresses sewn the old way
There is something strong in that stitch
(But those girls too
sneak out at night
and unlock their bobby-pinned hair:
one I saw once
put on hot pants
and went rollerskating to the disco beat
she searches as I do,
maybe only for the experience
of something legitimate
something you can taste
like the feasts of beans and corn
that surround us
choke us
then turn us loose to search again)

I go on searching
but never really arrive—
living in Indiana
is really all about the search
the flat long ground announces
that truth
in some places you see for miles
and you must find its beauty
in innuendo
like the mauve purples and bleached yellows
that sneak in when most aren’t watching
or a sunrise over a tiny lake
filled with pink clouds reflected on water
(and later by God’s glorious accident
you might catch the sunset that same day
and discover bright oranges with black leafless trees)
and white horses standing still
against blood red barns

You must dig the dirt to live here
and feel it itch under your fingernails
breathe manure with a satisfied smile
and love the cold harsh wind as it cuts your face
delighting in the crunch of oak leaves under your step
and the waft of pumpkins rotting on the vine

Indiana is The Land of Hidden Beauties
Only a grateful eye can find
in endless searching
submersed in pure life