Anyone could have said go and then

dumped the words behind the train station.

All kinds of buzzings and clickings

emerged from those grasses.

I was walking out among the thistles,

calling crows and singing their songs

and none of my own, nothing for bread

but for company only, even illusion.

I followed her because she said she knew the way,

something I didn’t know nor could I read the words.

The script made no sense. Meanwhile

vacant-faced men appeared from behind the boxcars

carrying overcoats and tattered luggage.

We were looking for the road

not knowing it had been buried, replaced by track.

Men appeared with plastic bags full of pajamas

and rolling suitcases. They wore small caps

and smiled through mouthfuls of gold.

I was less shy now and able to speak though

not in the incomprehensible language.

She kept turning to me from behind her kerchief,

her smile misplaced like someone who

might have known the way and yet continued to lead us astray.

This was the wrong field, tattered with summer daisies.

—Nellie Hill