Sam White’s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in The Paris Review, Ploughshares, American Letters & Commentary, and several other journals. He is the co-host of the Jubilat reading series, and is a contributing editor for that journal. Life in a Big Sweater is as you might expect given to night terrors given to sun stroke. I am going down slowly. I am thinking we are alone in this knit: you and me and me and me. I love you. Have I told you I am hotter in this sweater. They are building a long list of covenant housing on the far side of town. The grass works its way to my socks. I am unshod in the sprinkler which sprouts like an aged whisker from the growth of the lawn. I am under you, on top. From far off a light blinks on in the deep stretch of a window. Part of me lives in a crow's beak. Part of me is nest. Portage This wind sifts the bivouacked backs of the cattle yard, milling the hides for what it can carry. Miles to the boy in the field, where it comes over him. Beneath the carriage of mulch and spruce the wall to wall stock. Filling out its window, light from the kitchen. His parents in and out of view, actors incidental to the scene. The father runs his hand down the mother's arm Distant industry. * one note. Two dogs. The neighbor's German Shepherds howl at him each day, with a start and the wind chipped from his chest. Side by side in twin pens, independent, like the eyes of a mystic roving straight out of the head. Wind shift. Swing set. He means to leave. To be missed. His parents in the window, the barn, the yard. The mother inclines her head Swing set. Saw * horse. The father kisses her hair The dogs will catch scent of him, then start up. A coupled bellowing like stumbling footfalls. The mother turns Kiss Wheel barrow. Wheel barrow. Slip of water reflecting from its trough. The kitchen faucet runs and runs. Its stream an iron bar. Its stream a handle. Gone Into the Last Picture She waves and throws a ribbon to the track. On its last tie the train shrinks to a coin. My luggage eats at my hands. When I was young at night the mice at night my socks at night and I would wear through them. I saw her against the gridded window, the book's pages fluttering under her chin. Sun sections the roof in thin triangles. A whistle and a hard crank. You'll find the sky comes down this way, light as a reed, machinery bared.