For meadows of yawning
and imagining set aside a fund.
There is no point anymore
in putting shoulders to the plow.
A girl sits on a hay rake
in a blear of sunlight,
a lume of moonlight rises
above the eye line of the field
at dusk, ears of hard corn
lie spilled in the mud.
Listen for the wind’s forage
among the dying stalks,
the faint, percussive music
as the eohippus starts to gallop
over this fallow ground again.
Published 2014. A kind of hallucinatory, almost drugged, quality.
The author is a Detroit poet and several of his poems’ titles begin with Fight
Song of, which I don’t get.
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