A Field, Mow’d
In the middle of it:
Nudging out of the way
The obbligado brouhaha of daily
Impermeability, all that big picture
Standoffishness. How centrifugally fly to
Ripcord spin the lettuce dry!
And mete out two good-
Looking tomatoes, grocery-bought, wicker-
Dent’d. The unceasing quotidian detail,
The way it provides a
Plane admitting of no story,
Nothing beyond a pile-up
Of weighty negatives, the way
That ‘pea-gravel intermisced with
Vermiculite ain’t wont to grow
No rhododendron.’ Nay-echoing days.
—
‘The musickracket / of all ownership’
Is how Olson puts it,
The scuff and connivance of
Things, big endless rehearsals of
Object-counting to no account.
Put cup in the cupboard.
Knife in drawer. The exterior
Smear captured through the draperies,
Out in the mestizo tempo
And slurry of the uncodify’d
Night. Out where the conjecturalist’s
Need to say something apt
Bottoms out in random off-
Gradient stitchery, and the unsediment’d
Refuse of daily rhythm grinds
Its own plenary stochastic truck.
