THE FARM

Every day we pass by
the cows stand
sturdy— propped

against the sky. I see them.
I see them whispering
little. They are cued

by unheard signs.
We move out to the farm
never

having lived
because the land, you say
is an introduction.

And, an excuse.
My cards read we
are acting

in a time of general
rest. If I believed in anything
it would not be

written. Look
how corn becomes my filler.
The field pours forth falsely

as a mouth I want to dig
out of the earth. As seeds
for a sustainable word.

A few lines
are incomparable with
crows that slowly lasso

clouds— narrowing the distance—
to an unsuspecting meal.
How is one so hungry

patient? These things only
the work
will teach us. We must load

our guns silently.
We won’t have much
to share unless.

Not the Dead

It is not the dead who haunt us.
There is no further damage they can do.
We have seen them to death’s door.

Made sure they had expired.
Double-checked their pulse.
Tested them for livor mortis, breath.

Turned them over to embalmers
who stitched their lips.
Left them deaf and dumb.

Burned them to a cinder.
Buried them up
to their oxters in muck.

It is the not-yet-born
we are up against.
They will be the first to forget us.

Strike down our judgements
as null and void.
Rewrite our history.

Consign us to the past.
Find solutions to what baffled us.
Put us down to experience.

Outlast us.