The Farmer in the Dell

The Farmer in the Dell The old men of Saigon rejoice in dieir parks, moving as slowly as sunbeams. It is May and I do clumsy homage. Wilderness is whatever you're not used to and I'm not used to myself. You have solved diat problem and gone to plow die garden. Your impulse is to feed me widi your hands. You thrive on familiar sweat and thrill to the torrents of green where you toil. I stayed behind to squint at rocks and lick my lips. Today I crossed a stream of sand and looked for my reflection. (The horizon bubbles.) I gaze into a baby's skull parted like a map, die rock holds up a hand stained with my lifeline. I walk among die glands of a body diat is not human. I am a sty in die glare ofthe landscape. It stares me down ; it sheds its skin behind my back. This place is indifferent to our passions. I leave my heat in its lap. Again, the day has begun before I arrived. Now die granite is rusting against its will, scowling behind its trees, sprouting shadows. The morning transmutes cold into light. I applaud. You are furrowed in concentration. There are stretch marks on the belly of the rocks, flaunting all diose labors. It is a swamp I'm in. The birds stay out of sight. Everyone is home but me. HAL LENKE Hal Lenke has been associated with the "Poets and Writers on the Road" program of the Arizona Commission on the Arts and Humanities. ...