Whittled, lipped, arced limbs near-prehensile, poised like spurs,
spines, or pine needles spun, invisibly seeping. Newcomers
watchful of our topography and us in cars, between the hills.
The windmills are quite monsters, no matter which of us
disbelieves. Don’t say to me that in whipping with wind speed
they can tear their bodies terribly down. Or do, and their mystique
and pursuit looses and, flying wildly, ties us hard to earth. I say
we bite off this fear and suck the dizzying future-sweet.
And so reeling, regenerate: so that our lit dust might spiral
if not beautifully, then mark a shape if not precise, then dancing
with the seeming absence, circumambient.
Julia Leverone teaches poetry and Spanish at UT Dallas. Her second chapbook, Little Escape, won the 2016 Claudia Emerson Poetry Chapbook Award and is forthcoming from JMWW. She is the editor of Sakura Review. Her translations from the Spanish have appeared in literary venues including Witness, Waxwing, and The Brooklyn Rail. Her poems themselves have been translated into Italian.