The Farmer in the Dell
     

       That man in the field --
       down there, a cigarette
       loose in his mouth --
       his heel on dirt 
       now starting 
       to swell, 
       to part,
       to make way for
       the leafy green start of
       corn, soy, and beets,
       his thick fingers curved
       in an elegy for things
       he has held
       and loved
       and crushed
       and mended
       and broken once again,
       knows more than I
       as he tilts back his head
       to send smoke to the sky,
       knows the strength of his hand
       on the earth
       is a lie, in the
       carnival turning of 
       stars and sun,
       the earth works him
       when each day is done.



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