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Sally Delehant
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1,088 Readings | 5 Ratings
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Sandstorm
Farmers move
market-hooved—
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?
Posted 07/01/09
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Comments
(2)
Reminds me of Marianne Moore in sonic inventiveness, form. Also love the grays.
John Bowman
08/05/10 3:58pm
this is definitely one of my favorites of yours. you had my attention, as a reader, at "market-hooved".
Stephen Danos
07/02/09 12:49pm