Stan Mir
In Terms of Quiet and the Land
New Poems From the USA

 

The spigots refuse to speak.
Crops have gone in where
syllables support themselves
on rotten grain and the bones of mice.

Furrows align with road signs
covered in dust. Wind
goes mad before rain
performs its last discussion
of red earth caked to wheels.

Clouds’ citations stopped
light from circling. Formal
complaints were dropped
by gulls, each gull pleased
with its view, each view
above cattle frozen

by the pond. If talking is essential,
then air is ashamed of its worth.