Writing poems about writing poems

    is like rolling bales of hay in Texas.

    Nothing but the horizon to stop you.

    But consider the railroad's edge of metal trash；

    bird perches¹， miles of telephone wires.

    What is so innocent as grazing cattle？

    If you think about it， it turns into words.

    Trash is so cheerful； flying up

    like grasshoppers² in front of the reaper³.

    The dust devil whirls it aloft； bronze candy wrappers，

    squares of clear plastic——windows on a house of air.

    Below the weedy edge in last year's mat，

    red and silver beer cans.

    In bits blown equally everywhere，

    the gaiety of flying paper

    and the black high flung patterns of flocking birds.