Jim Harrison, “Ghazals, pt. III”
The alfalfa was sweet and damp in fields where shepherds
lay once and rams strutted and Indians left signs of war.
He harnessed the horses drawing the wagon of wheat toward
the road, ground froze, an inch of sifting snow around their feet.
She forks the hay into the mow, in winter is a hired girl
in town and is always tired when she gets up for school.
Asleep between peach rows, drunk at midmorning and something
conclusive is needed, a tooth pulled, a fistfight, a girl.
Would any god come down from where and end a small war between
two walls of bone, brain veering, bucking in fatal velocity?