1.

However lonely we were before

Becomes unclear

In our next loneliness.

All summer long the rain

Stayed west of the mountains.

2.

Underneath this landscape of sighs,

Is a landscape of feathers,

One of blood, and yes,

A landscape of earth and trees and sky.

The soil of Oklahoma

Is leaving again.

Heaven is west of where it falls.

3.

Down here in the level world

Oil rigs make love

To the earth beneath the wheat.

All afternoon the wind blows hot.

The river is a piece of dirty string.

Like huge somnambulating farmers,

Dust-devils work the fallow ground.

4.

The real farmers

Disk their fields on tractors

With hopeful yellow umbrellas

And raise white flags of surrender

Which keep the flying ants

From swarming near their faces.

5.

I’ll tell you what the soul is made of:

More dust.

Behind each harrow

In each field

A plume takes to the wind.

The farmers,

At last,

Are freeing themselves

By setting-free the soil.