A Draft from AGNI, Web Issue 3



    High summer. Plenitude. The granite knoll
    thrusts through gray soil at the hill crest. Drought:
    spring is fulfilled. I crouch on the warm skull
    of New Hampshire. Spikes of parched grass jut
    through the anthill at my feet, and the whole field
    grates with small oracles the cicadas
    scrape between thigh and wing. What do I hold
    at bay? The idea of harvest, days that ooze . . .
    From the valley rises the Interstate's purr,
    the whine of outboards from the lake, a child's voice
    quarreling. Someone's hammer raps the air,
    duet with its own knocked echo. Here is the precise
    dead heart of the living day, the hollow core, the pit
    around which light thickens, and we eat.