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Cogida
Up here on Murder Hill the earth is losing
control of its store of August heat which lifts
and breaks towards the persistent tug of a rising
harvest moon. You scoff at twelve-hour shifts:
tonight, with a bullfighter's concentration, you guide
sharp fingers across the field below and peel
up laid corn; indifferent to what's on either side;
aware of nothing but barley cowled to your reel.
If an auger stalls or a drive belt slips
you'll pasuse, back up to free some trash. draw
one hand up over your brow and moisten your lips -
that's all. You heard about the matador
who stole a glance at a woman in the crowd.
None of it's true. I tell you. Look up now.
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