Whitecaps in Kansas

If answers can swell like bees gorging
on mellow flavors, and if treats can be
found in wax chewed by colonies of mandibles,
each oozing sweet condiments,
then portray the fields of clover
like a white-purple wave on the banks
of the old Kansas, before the oceans expired,
before the water plummeted to distant seas,
before sharks died near Salina, hefting their
heavy weight onto the black rocks
where cows would soon roam and buffalo
would sink deep into flint,
the caves holding secrets of sea anemones
and baby’s breath, the flowers
urging tectonic seams, and warbles
replacing
the cold depths where
anchors rust and whales
swallow black bears whole.