Monday, October 26, 2015


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 
ride like—I wonder;

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

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?