1,088 Readings | 5 Ratings


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?
Posted 07/01/09
Books by Sally Delehant
Comments (2)
Reminds me of Marianne Moore in sonic inventiveness, form. Also love the grays.
08/05/10 3:58pm
this is definitely one of my favorites of yours. you had my attention, as a reader, at "market-hooved".
07/02/09 12:49pm