Late Farming

Is that where you stood

that morning when the sheath’d, embarrassed moon

hid herself too soon behind earth’s broad shoulder?

Inured to tenderness but not without skiff and shuffle

you never made it your way to sing

past noon when the capricious cool lay waiting

for her summons from the heat of shimmering day.


Why must the geese shout so loud,

parading their brash story, torn through the ashen sky?

Their mockery only makes you braver

to twist your weary neck from shifting dirt;

the clumping, clodden landscape,

your only refuge.


You turn for home and take your place

among the pawns of potential.

Eat enough to remind yourself

of Eden’s meta-narrative, your textbook

with pages missing, the ones you planted.


Only here do you hear,

the song of dust, the foreplay of longitudinal seed-smithing.

Despite your doubt, here it makes sense.

Here it doubles up to surrender

the deep bellies of earth.

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