11/20/2014

the wild farmer
in me awakens
and opens his
mouth of green light.

he busies himself
fashioning a wheel
trenching the earth around
with his hands
making notes on a
single alfalfa sprout’s
rising.

 all his dogs are old and
no longer chase cars
or dream of chasing cars.
they sprawl in the shade
or the sun
depending on the hour.
their eyes are bad
but their ears, keen
enough to pick up the
whipoorwill’s insane
dream fruiting downvalley
in the suburbs.

the farmer never stops
listening to the sighs of
his dogs.
his cupboard always
has room for his cup.

when the field’s work is done
the red earth blooms
in fiery completeness
in swarms of wildflowers
paintbrushes
rising up in fists
from a grave
thorny and restless.