“We go back to the poetry, the poet. I see a figure in a field. There is genuine moonlight shining on his crowbar. He is prying stumps out of his ground. Poetry busts guts.”

A body with very few clothes

An old radio

Some apples

You get to eat

as many slices of bacon as you want

the morning of a home game

The way his sweater smells

It gets so hot it smokes

After awhile

just when Sam Cooke’s new song

comes on

Worms and a homely girl from Texas

who can read quicker than you

Good marks

and a lost crop

like a whole season

that passed without a letter

from my brother