Agrarian Myth

Father says draw near A hundred years

of fathers, centurys You stand

on the flat of yourself, not the cornfield

or the half acre in rotation.

You can hear him, you've taken

psychology you have watched

him tip the 4-wheel drive.

Aren't my feet yours? he says.

He says, gaze at the land underneath.

But you succor a whirlwind

that lifts and lifts.

Whatever's upon your hands won't

wash not upon into the dirt.

It could approach from dirt.

A spider crosse your father's

letter the acrobat's answer.

When you cartwheel into the air

no land at last-Father will take

his cap not on in time to the music

and cash will fill it.

Copyright World verse Incorporated Jan/Feb 1998

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