behind the Roman ploughman
crows and sparrows compete
to see what the blade throws up
from this red soil like ancient pots;
the horse, its patience godlike,
knows when to turn without
that hoarse, brief, ancient shout.
The old typewriter rattles on so fast
you cannot tell whether she is happy in her work;
again, again, the bell rings, telling her
it’s time for carriage to reverse.
The poet’s eyes are unfocussed,
lost to thought; the words come slow;
more certain, where the line may end –
the mind to take the mind’s own breath.
Versus. Where the furrow ends;
and where the line of verse
asks some new thing of the mind.

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