Carthage and Fusion

She would yet make amends
croaking and complaining
the harvest was late
there stood a strange dog
by the wire fence that circled the haystack
a row of red winged girls
clad only in a cause
thin bit of the weekend and of the fright
together shared
thanked


To search a muslin
which a pamphlet scarce covered


Blur of homesickness
of many pleasant evenings
the wind sang dismally
sickened blackbirds
like a string of jet beads
waiting for oat structure


She served dinner to a long line of stoppers
she was Lys, and she was
teaching brute spacecraft
along the danger-infested way
known as the Red River frame
and the corners


The guests at table were a typical pioneer group
a joiner at each side
homesteaders
speculators
machine men journeying through the country
loudly recommending and gesticulating
forced to take to dairy products
to crab trees
to escape the clutches --
wildly
competitive


So spent in her little shack
with the same wind making eerie music
of the boys she had not seen
since the winter before
and while she finished the fashion called saddle
she discussed neighborhood matters with them --
the pleasing
see sex unharmed


A huge brute
just the litter bin --
and his foot reached the cliffs when --


Yesterday and today were separated by a gulf
a sizzle of eggs
frying on a hot pan
making a running accompaniment


Whatever can be done to a house
to spoil its appearance
had been done to her words
wide as death itself


She was so close
to selling machinery
to harvesting grain
not yet grown

(this poem currently appears on morton hurley's
blog anthology of spam poetry)