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.

in the woodstove

the fire licks iron dies slow

the tea is thin and cold. I am

thinking of kindness, for you

dear world and all your

purpling bruises. I would

fill the teakettle again

for you, throw an extra log

on the down-dimming light

pull your fraying form

from the bottomless zero-kelvin

that surrounds this tiny

planet. I would kiss you.

I have blankets. see how cold

it is outside, through the

stuck window frozen rain like

needles or bullets from outer

space the wind tearing its contorted

muscle around the corner of

the house seeking entry and

starvation. my frail little oasis

for you, tender world. my limited

hands and slow smile. my heart

futile and small as it is barely

enough but sufficient

to open the door.

the thing with sorrow is
you must not stop reciting it not
until the last word is gone not
stop pouring until the dirt has ate
the dew of the last salted drop not
stop even if everyone you know
has grown bored to death on its
violins and all you have
to speak to are dogs and birds
who know little of it but will
listen because of their ears attuned
to the faintest note and the trees
who are made to stand still absorb
everything and in the end even they
are not enough to take the last
bit from you and you know you must
manage the long old road to the sea
which is made of it, what you bear
and plunge yourself in the blue
womb and be carried out like a burning
canoe and be quenched and be made
whole and then, sailor, turn away
and only then.