1,096 Readings

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
Books by Sally Delehant
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