At the Edge of the Soccer Complex, Lynchburg, Virginia

Versions of a corner. Red flag sticking out of the earth
where painted lines on the grass meet. Past it

chest-high chain link fences knot into a right angle
before the ground drops twenty feet down

a scrabbly bank on which lines cannot be drawn.
Past the parked cars an uneven stand of poplar and pine

waving like a tired family. Are they greeting us
or waiting for us to drive out of sight?

Then the foothills
where our preferences end.

How is it that mountains always seem to appear
by surprise? or a big word gathering quietly

in our ear, a thing without corners
growing inside a thing without corners,

a soccer ball knocking over a styrofoam cup of coffee
in the way a day may be suddenly knocked on its side

by a force that seems utterly foreign to it.
Crouching to save what’s left

I see the soccer field lines
as cave drawings of wordless heights fallen

on their sides and flattened, flag pinned to the top.