Thursday, September 24, 2009
Paw marks near one burrow show
Graydigger at home, I bend low,
from down there swivel
my head, grasstop level--the world
goes on forever, the mountains a bigger
burrow, their snow like last winter.
From a room inside the world
even the strongest wind
has a soft sound:
a new house will hide in the grass;
footsteps are only the summer people.
The real estate agent is saying,
"Utilities . . .
easy payments, a view." I see
my prints in the dirt. Out there
in the wind we talk about credit,
there on the bank by Graydigger's home.
Posted over on Poemhunter