I guess it’s too late to live on the farm

It’s never too late to live on the farm though the crops
may have rotated
beyond recognition. It’s always too late to move to the farm
but it is good to cultivate longing.
I guess.
The farm inspires in me a fecund moralizing. Land lets
the cityslick feel
a longing for the past, then a hardscrabble farewell.
Who is there
to talk to on the farm, and do we accept a vague lowing.
Can the ultracontemporary
ever be rural? Probably not. I need the farm to remind me
this spotty dailiness
was chosen. By me. I always moved to my farms
whenever their spectres pulsed
and now I am very tired. . . .
The farm, always arriving, mottles whatever’s at hand.



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