The sun writes in his Book, a sentence of
heat & light heat & light.
Righteousness in the scald of days.
The grass is singing, to the sling blades swinging, the grass is singing.
To feel the wholeness of the world about you: that’s the only thing.
The only thing, Boss, I just want to move over here move over here.
Here there is no other.
There is among us no element that is not lawless
not the sun, not the men working under the sun, nor the men watching the men who are working under the sun
dying to be free.
Black single-lane highways cut through a God-stricken land like bereavement.
Something shimmering in the heat of a late summer day.
Fields goldsoftened by light.
In the sweatbox, dark hand-me-down minutes.
Somewhere: wind whispering through trees. A black-ribboned coolness. Moonlight.
