Missouri Sky Music

—after Pat Metheny

He plucks a string into a gust stirring dust,
spins a windmill lonely in a blanket of corn
covering Leesburg Summit where he grew up
in a back yard two hundred miles due south
of nothing, playing for the wind and hawks
and hope of leaving the state he returns to
in his music now, compositions of the sky
that held every minute for hours for him.
Notes lifting into clouds bulging with light,
strums ribboning the horizon with plum,
as I coast north on a train leaving a place
I once called my home too, my face against
the glass, my eyes blurring across some city
between cities with his songs in my ears
also listening to the scratches of his fingers
across the fret—those gritty imperfections
so necessary and inseparable from the music,
not knowing which is truer, which I prefer.
Place of Mind
Richard Blanco
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Place of Mind

Richard Blanco

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