Now this is one of the new ones--
well, an old one that I just did not see.
Toward the end, there's I-you speak and there's a colon.
And I say mouth speaking.
That's the idea.
And so everything after speaks is dialogue-like.
It's called "The Tenant Farmer."
Nails of rain puncture the ground
as I sit at the table rubbing a fork.
My woman slides a knife across her lips
then lays it beside a cup of water.
Each day, she bites another notch in her thumb
and I pretend relief is coming.
As a smooth black tire, Earth, wheels around the sun
without its patch of topsoil.
And my mouth speaks--
wheat, barley, red cabbage, roll on home to Jesus.
It's too late now.
You're dead.