Farmers move


     grab grain from the trough.

Invention flattens a faded name

     how wire pins a hand-hold,

     a push on the wind.

The whipped pearl a mother peddles in grass

     taunting straw grown taut,   our cattle commodity

our prattling in milk rain. We make stay.

Animals themselves are thinly made, caged in

     a cagey reign—

     food flood, chain graze.

A gray is a gray is a gray.

By any name produce, by any wet peel,

     each worm is warm,

     and the turn is terrible. In what economy

     are made pockets for a rock piece?

Sally Delehant (© 2011)