THREE POEMS
I
The farmer in deep thought
is pacing through the rain
among his blank fields, with
hands in pockets,
in his head
the harvest already planted.
A cold wind ruffles the water
among the browned weeds.
On all sides
the world rolls coldly away:
black orchards
darkened by the March clouds—
leaving room for thought.
Down past the brushwood
bristling by
the rainsluiced wagon-road
looms the artist figure of
the farmer—composing
—antagonist.
II
Our orchestra
is the cat's meow
Banjo jazz
with a nickle-plated
amplifier to
soothe
