Maybe you’ve never seen
A man lose his hope
In the smoke of misfortune.
It’s possible the rake
Sheltered that seed for you:
That cold hour lonely-awake,
When the work was more
Than a whistle while-ya,
More than the cornhusk tan
Below a merciless dusk-in-blue.
Trustier than Papaw’s promise-ta,
It’s right next to true
That you arc out before the wheel
Like an unharvested backroad—
Stalk-stretched for the zenith-sun,
Lash-alive and yearningly surreal,
Begging to be brought up
From the row you’ve been laid in.
Love’ll water your wilt,
Fill your cup with what’s to be won
From that sweat-beaten-brow heat.
It’ll kiss your sweet desire
And rob rest from the undone
Night you’ve gone to waist-high wade in—
Bathed there, abandonedly bare,
Stared-upon in all wonder by him,
In the passion of prairie fire.
Poetry: Unspoken For
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