The bent briars, the fountains of briars 

bowed down, thieved pinches of Jenny's sweater 
	as the pawpaw leaves hung and spun in the breeze
and she pulled me like gum across the orange creek,
	through the cranky grove of jesus trees, down
to where a silo still stood. Whatever barn there was
	was gone, long since stripped away the
pond, the fence posts, whatever made a farm.

We wore a path around its base, 
	hands brailing the rough wood and iron ribs,
and watched its long body revolve beneath the sun.

	Jenny could hoister herself up, scramble in
a missing slat, fill the silo with hoots and roars while
	I—weak, desperate—could only pound the boards.  
Then, nothing— a word?  a muffled moan?  I imagined her
	gazing up in the black air, 
a smatter of sun-lit spots, freckles awash, wild
	constellations far above in the rusted dome.