Daily Poem: April 4

Harvest

The sound
in the snow field
is fading and useful.

The devil is on the farm.

The conductor
is wearing the wrong shoes,
his orchestra full of animals.

The desk is cluttered
and the upstairs shower is on,
water rushing
through pipes
from the basement and past.

I had a teacher tell me
that everything required purpose.

Like sound or sand

or guinea hen
or tall grass
or breath
or the gentle
system of the neck or the savage hand
needs it.

Can you believe that.

As if the poor
aren’t always returning
like ceaseless wind,

a deafening vision
of hell,

to the company store.

And what does the sound in the snow field care.