Farming Now

Trains have babies’ cries, slick orchids of
spooling clefts, chins open and pantomimes
dead.  Red botched botox and blue sown on
shirts, the flesh and cotton medley just as
Indian farmers poison their sons with chems
those brilliant Brits brought.  There is no coal
to mine, no canary to cage, just them in fields,
long tempered and tanned away, Forschung,
scientia potentia est, as the Westardly winds
bring Or and ore, both flushing in out of the
water, navigare necesse est, vivere non
necesse est.  I don’t recall the cabin bins
that brought us here, but our liquid-white
limbs have found our claim, in the veins of
brown men, and in spoons of mother’s reach.


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