Young Farmer

Lights-out, he lies awake in his head’s glow.
Three hundred acres, one hired hand –
and all the lanes out constrict to a bridle path,
then a footpath, then a fox trail,
then ripe, unparting rape or corn
as far as his lovelorn eyes can see.

Memories this narrow life makes a stranger’s:
the last time sun-up had been day’s end;
the last time he wore a tux;
the last time he kissed a girl.
As she held his face,
he vowed into her wrists he’d plot his own course.

But the pilot stars were Chinese lanterns
lying charred by morning.

His head is a buoy light
roiling in the Atlantic of his corn.
The yellowhammers glow in the ash tree
shading the grain shed:
a shot to the head would see it all burn.