I no longer remember I am here
there being no mountain
and I at its foot
reading the sea-level poems about me
to Grant Wood whose denim bib
rustles like a skiff’s sail
perhaps waves in dirt and tassels
really are like waves of the sea
so long as we do not think about
whose prairie if I may be forgiven
a figure of speech furrowing
at the least disturbance
craft can always prevail
provided spokes stick out
from the crucial nubs
and the eye composes this space
with composure sun setting
or sun rising
close to the ground
nothing fancy, you know
simple beyond comprehension
austere without being witless
here folk over there scholars
keeping droll actors’ suspicions
drawing themselves out
into schoolhouse murals
and innkeepers’ commissions
as if after lofty effort
earth-rubbing lines
fashioned a style
IMAGE: Iowa farm (left) by David Mark, used by permission; The Great Wave Off Kanagawa by Katsushika Hokusai (c. 1830).
POETRY and PLACES 