 'The routines of our daily lives lead us to skate on the surface of things, as Emerson said, guided by habit through familiar terrain. Most of the world is invisible to us, glimpsed if at all only in moments of sensual dilation. Ironically, the invisible world of words encourages such dilation and can show us the depths of the world we inhabit, and that inhabits us.' - John Canaday |
I am a stubborn ox dreaming
of rain as the drover's fingers drum
around my eyes. But no: the wet
hum of flies distracts me,
and now the plow has drifted from
the line I meant to follow. See
where the damp leather of the reins
has worn the callus on my left
forefinger raw? Or was it the dry,
ash handle of my hoe? I can hear
the steel head singing as it strikes
rocky ground, the fresh-turned earth
swallowing showers of sparks. The tip
of my tongue goes dry. I touch my lips
to the soil as I once touched you, here
and there. A single knot of dirt
crumbles slowly in my mouth
with the taste of sweet butter dripping
from your thumb. This ground will raise
a heavy crop. I am the wheat
that flowed around your waist like water.
I am that lonely knot of earth.