Canterbury Plains
The wheat's a freeze frame of beige rain
Quivering above the drive, improbably vertical Terrestrial tassels strung up by an invisible thread Stretched a hundred million miles to the hydrogen Gaslamp drifting overhead behind a slow loping Pilgrimage of chastely white clouds
I swagger below, the American farmboy I never was
In a chest level canopy of Queen Anne's lace Or Queen Anne's snowflakes, perhaps Something fractal, like the ferns further upcountry Curled up green comb-racks for comb-racks For combs
The highland cattle in shaggy summer misery
Frame me in their trapezoidal horns, a trespasser Launching into friendly kiwi airspace a foreign missile: A red, white, and scuffed, cork and leather piece of home A Rawlings baseball, falling in tight geometry to The spanksound pocket of my glove
The donkeys notice me, and look up quizzically
Like grey uniformed generals awaiting bad news Ferdinand and Francesca leave their rusty tent Their hairy, corrugated scratching post and Flick forward their ears, thick and steady as my forearm And hot under my fingernails
Southpaw sandwiched in cowhide, I walk back
Clapping the ball with its smudges of donkey dust Pitching it high in a sky where it doesn't belong Though it looks just the same, a fat little bird Darting for a darker blue, a grander view Its underbelly in shadow
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