Monday, October 26, 2015

MIDWESTERNER

Oh—but what then, of the 
plain wind? sings
only a very 

particular kind of bard—which runs, he laments,
only and ever clearer,
only like itself,

and only and always 
as fast as it can? 

What does 
it?
ride like—I wonder;

threshing and tumbling autumn somersaults over
the corncolored 
nape of America—un-
disrupted, 

neatly 
covering my entire bare-
headed view of the blue planet, and

inspiring hayseed 
after hayseed—to one-by-one 
go tramping off 

to sew 
his golden self-
similar similes

without ever whispering—a single suggestion?

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