1. Greg Correll
  2. Uncategorized
  3. Monday, June 27, 2016
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<p class="poemAlone">I miss a prairie sensation,
a plainchant wind, souls with salty baskets,
spatter'd boddhisattvas in potluck calico,
farm wives who feed all runaways
and hold how wind 'n dust'll grind down stalwarts
ever since Adam kissed Eve.

women who know sweet sweat,
geometry of seed, sex in ribbon'd corn,
know chased in blue-green wheat,
fathead grain in scimitar sleeves
crushed by knee, by thigh, by urgents
under failing blue, who know the sound of
screen door ache-for-oil, insist-on-storm
when holy ozone stings, shreds the nose
ahead of heavy, old-goat cumuli
a hundr'd miles across, a line comin' out of the west.

Let's be boys 'n girls who kiss
in lonely headlights, share breath,
rise under the stars, run in thunder,
through the itchgrass splendor
of a swollen prairie who rolls in the rain
to shoot her hip at heaven.
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