THREE POEMS OUT OF SOUTH EAST IOWA

 

I Can Smell The River

Wind gutted fields.

Poplars bent over and fucked by the wind.

Wind raped barns, howl of a wind blind dog.

Generations of corn stalk knocked to the ground

plowed under.

Wind peeled houses the color of shuck

fallen on their backs in hay

bleached blond as a woman’s hair.

From where I am  I can smell the river.

A Banker Among Farmers

I love the shape of your mouth

as you lie.

Your tongue is a curved and rusted sickle.

Your harvest lips draw back like competing messiahs

before a congregation of teeth.

You Say My Heart Is A Church House

You say my heart is a church house

with seven windows facing a soybean field.

You say the million stars over my rooftop

are a million reasons to live.

But  I say I would take God by the throat

and never let go of him til I was

chosen.

.

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