A earlier version of this poem was published by Poets Reading the News in January 2018.


“The hole in the landscape is real.”


There's a grumbling in the belly of this city.

You can hear it at the bottom of the swimming pool in summer.

Some say it sounds like static from an old TV, but slow–

which is like the sound of the snow falling

on all sides of my car, parked by the edge of a stubble field

in January. It is dusk. A full moon flickers

through curtains of snowy sky, and a family of deer

creeps across the field,


Beneath us:

the channels changing.


The snowing has ceased and it is dark.

A TV turns off

and the deer scamper on.

Frozen still,

I sense that the people,

the churches,

the combines and cars,

the houses and TVs

will soon disappear through the holes

to the other Montevideo. 


When the old world vanishes,

I make a new map.

Those jotted tracks behind me

mean road or path.

I slip and sink.

This marks buried treasure.

Suddenly above me

a black oak appears

with shovels raised.