Scything under an Electric Fence
My
chore:
where the
old mowing
machine extending
from the back of the tricycle
front-end red Farmall tractor like the base of an L
could not reach I reached with a scythe.
I did not pretend
to be Death, or to cut at last
"the beautiful uncut hair of graves," or vengefully
to destroy the grass for thriving while I did not since Julianna did not love me.
I had not met Whitman or Marvell. I wish their words
could while I worked have been my thoughts.
They would have made good
company.
