I-65
I push down, and the needle jumps to eighty-
five. The cars I pass fall back as quickly
as the farms, the browning fields of wheat
I push down, and the needle jumps to eighty-
five. The cars I pass fall back as quickly
as the farms, the browning fields of wheat
by Charles Simic Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile and spit out the teeth.