The Intentionality of Literary Objects


The vine on the stone wall
scaffolds the sun: a clasp
that holds each curl
like a slogan.


They don’t start their wells
until oil hits thirty dollars
a barrel; it’s not worth it
until the sea is wine-dark
and rosy-fingered dawn
is tainted blue. A writ
of habeas corpus
lets the crops
grow wild.


On both sides
of the language divide
sheep caroused plough edges
where toxic weeds
rivalled the tangled stalks
of legumes. Green afterimage,
heads shaken out, new growth.
Sheep lean out through wire
and cut them off in their prime:
the toxic and nutritious alike.