Somewhere in a Spain I think of as France

dozens of geese live in Paradise.

They run at the river,

swaying their sizeable livers,

 

while on either side I think there are

fields and fields, or one, of lavender,

faced blue toward the sun,

lavender first and by far.

 

It is late summer, early winter.

That spleenish November, another

idea altogether. It was something like flying.

Well, it was very like something,

 

the geese with their orange oversexed feet

bumping each other.

And enormous grasshoppers leaping,

clutching their back haunches.

 

In every way this is the peaceable kingdom,

The geese are livers. It’s fall. It’s spring.

Things migrate here. It’s too far.

Also the grass, too hot by far.

 

A mushroom flaps around a stumpy tree,

underbelly brown where it hits the sun.

Something supposed to be seen

is seen. Something’s supposed.

 

 

Into the grasses, into the wheat,

The worms have got into the flour,

The green, green worms in their bright, bright skin

Colors, berserk in the heat,

Leap in the bergamot, latch to the barleycorn,

Leap to the three-pointed clover

No crops here cropped close as your lover,

No time here till the corn.

 

What am I but a half-life

What do I do but I have

To do, to face these fields where they are

Lavender first and by far.

 

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