| on Tuesday came the farmer did lay his crop down to sleep no spiked headdress lay they down to rest and for a night did keep guessing yellow rows middle of nature grown they’s smitten and doomed a summer’s day bliss fought they earth to kiss and ready to make room on Wednesday labour the tracks coupled further and rolled our heroes into wheels of gold spun that now wander in sun and wander forth and through | Most twenty-somethings are out on a Saturday night at some party, rubbing up against each other and trying to make things happen. Me, I spend Saturday nights indoors, with some booze, my fan on its highest setting and Mahler going crazy. This is why you will see poems on a Sunday. Something about the length of Saturday night allows me to get into the swing of things, and, really, all I want to do right then is just write little poems that are of no importance to anyone at all. |
Sunday, August 19
Crop
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