Of doubtful provenance;
from doubtful Provence, I pulled
a handful of clod, a scalp
and all scant hair of clover-sprouts.
Sundry traps there offer at the wind...
the traps unsprung, for no cruising
wind’ll offer a paw to catch. No jar,
no match for the point of the plow,
a soil freed wholly of all ‘spersed
pebble and blunt...but then, our jockeys
and fops had spilled decotions from
hip-flasks, into the acres of furrow-and-scratch...
crop-roots, all declined therefrom
to flimsy-grim arabesque.
-2005
