Jones

The wheat was common of me. And of my yellow 
arms

The chokecherries dropped in kiddish handfuls
to their wine 
that I drank

This is the memory 
of one Jones

I sent my hound in October
and it complied with a ruddy
duck whose wing was slick
and then ruffled

Its eyes were two mute drops in the alarm
ing morning

The broken duck cried in the ditch
My hood went up and I hurried to the mush

I was far away from despair

My big toe pressed its image into a pile 
and I was the image of God

I chased the dog at dawn
Its mouth sang bow wow into the long wind

I was far away

There was fear in me