Heads of milo
heads of corn
heads of cotton, cattle, bean, wheat,
ear of sheep and wing of hawk that beats the
grass of bleating sod and bale of hay
and cord of wood that
the born of May
for autumn’s swinging thrall.
How hard to prose
the I of I
and me of me
and place them all in happy rows
without a weed of rude dishonesty
that fouls the things I put to flesh
and toss abreast for many days
in many ways of many lives
I’ve lived through mouths of gods who’d confuse
my sense if I perchance call it any of it “good”.
Yes, Verse will have to do
and see me through to fearful day when
me, myself, and I reveal by blinding strike the heart that strives
but never says in ways the mind
might know and false believe what only gods and fools perceive.
Without the firm of land or
green within the sight
does man have sole the shift of men
to see and say and feel the things
that could or should or might.
Devil walks into bar. Orders drink. Asks Philosopher sitting next to him: “And what do you do?”