Come the rain
rise the fields:
the clover, goosegrass
evening primrose
Without order
the land breeds
chaos, fattens
the spiders & rats
Weekly
I must cull
this plot
of excess
Most
call this work
but I relish
the sweat
my mouth & lungs’
demand for air
how each wild root
hardens my belief
in the need
for this force
After I bend
each
blade to my
will
& deem
it good
I climb
the steps
to look down
on this acre
I have
shaped
Then open
a can
of Bud, sing
in my shower’s
cold, hard water