HAMMERING IT HOME
This should be a voice.
The should be a red voice.
I did not know that this
Would have this appearance,
That it would seem to be a collection
Of stars at a window, the blue
Eating away at where the moon
Was just reaching. This does not
Appear to be a voice. It is
So silent. I can’t get back
To it often enough. There isn’t
A sensation of sound at all.
Shaking the sleep away with
A voice. How can this be
As it seems. I will write
It down here. I will come
Here to listen. I will not know
Anything but the voice.
I will not be reading at all.
I will know what this really is.
FARM
I was once a farm.
The soft lips of dairy cows
Across my skin. The wheat
Discovering the sun and yes
The vegetables, huge books
Full of them, gardens they were
Called and too the rooster
And the hens and cats and dog,
A lamb, three goats in pens,
A pig, then two and Tommy
Took a horse awhile, and that
Was nice. His day: the pumps
And wagons, tools and working
The while. I was once
A farm. And now, a vacant parking lot
At the side of a Target store.
No comments:
Post a Comment