Issue 34, Spring-Summer 1965
For all I can do,
A last barn, dark as a plug of chewing tobacco,
Crumbles into chipmunk holes. Then
Twilight lifts its mist and crickets from a broad field of stalks.
I grope and call
My father (I’m back, a boy, in a dark bedroom)
To bring me water. I hear
Only the rust eating the farm machines.
Lord, I say, I am shaken;
This mattress of dirt won’t bounce a bug.
I used to sleep on ripples. Now I nap
Where I drop in a pasture of odds and ends.
Ants spit in this wind;
A sharp cough recoils to peel the corn:
Save me the husk of myself?