Beauty is Imperfection

The farmers move inland,
Brushing their scythes
away forever from the cool crests of wheat

Before siesta

When old men and little boys
alike
Come to sleep in a chain
of hands

Here they rest in rough dirt
made soft
By the bodies of young girls

Here they float over cankers in the Earth
Old salt furrows that can no longer
be farmed

Holes with no sympathy

Slumber is not measured here
in pounds
But in inches:

Rain hurts the mud wall
Unleashes dirt from the grooves
While a yeast goes to work on its millet

Otherwise, the whole world
is asleep
or dying

Across the handle of a rake

–1994