by John Grey
He once thought just land was beauty,
or a gold that moved in
whenever the topsoil was exposed
but the crop makes him think
of help that will never come,
dirt that nickels and dimes him to desperation,
and rocks, once necklace now headstone.
Who emptied the Earth, he wonders.
Who dressed the bones hot as a stove.
Everywhere he looks,
fastened to the windows,
stunted fields of corn.