the New Poem

I would employ a tool would and make work
but have pause to think.

Sweet-corn silk
riven into furrows  or salt.

Situated that new poem
on a walk

over a berm of cold
soil and husks. And

it is presumably
still going.


Whether the prospectuses
piled upon themself

is not bellwether
yet.

Whether the cloud kept
riding the horizon, &

saucily laid the far side
waste in rain

shadows, tumbling,
drawn over that round side

past the last door on left
is a real mess.


Feeding young
is feeling deft as if

the obstacle course life
climbed out

of card tables and casserole
dishes. And of the appeal

of the cold porch.