To Pasture Poem by Emily Rosko

Everywhere is a nowhere,
and here we are
in the middle of it.

For as long as we
could we galloped through
the cross-hatched daisies,

threw out our lungs
from the limestone
bluffs. The streams ran

long with a clay-jammed
soft bottom. Flood plains
turned for the richest

yield. It stunk high-fish,
green enough to breathe.
Sky was all

circumference, bell, or
curve, or big empty.
As with you. The husk-

wrecked dusks,
the nights where
I am where I am.