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?