Wheat (Poem)


Laying plastered in the sunshine

Like stucco the memories

A bit wheat colored like

Wheat colored grass

By a train station

Where the wind

Rusticating in the sunshine

And prostrating

The illusion of procession

Laying down an iron line

Clock wound nerves

Meld into the space

Of action

Keeping catatonic

Any actor from arising

Something chronic

Oh… ouh… Oh

On the Parapet

Oh… ouh… Oh

On the Parapet

Some have accused

Of regret

The dreamers

They would

rather have them

As confidants and schemers

Ah to build is sweet

But is there nothing to repair

And I dare say the tracks that greet

Me on a Moscow morning

With dewy tears of bright tomorrow’s wishful air

More like despair

All the little sparrows

Drink the dew

And in the narrows

Of every avenue

The indie yard brigade

Will make bread yet

From seeds of wheat

That dreams have set

In minds of those who meet

The stucco memories

And lay rusticating by the tracks to outpace

The useless hurries

To build in time to finish race

Is best done at wheat’s sweet golden time

Growing of its own accord

Doesn’t trouble overmuch with plot and word

No accounting no how shall I afford

Sucrease isn’t business but life’s way

Recognizing…

Thus clothes the earth in grain

Again…. Again….Again…

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