Issue 16, Spring-Summer 1957
In the first half-light of the morning the farmer turns toward
Besides which he sleeps; through which he sees his fields
Covered with Spring mist like that first layer of feminine flesh
Which it seems we can see through;—where the nearer fields
dissolve into it.
As dark as the flesh the larger surfaces of her legs round
We are content as there rises from these to our nostrils
the ageless memory of a home:
Of the manured land we have never been able to live too
long away from.