Before this arrival, I had a farmer. And he was good to me and I was full. The farmer, he took
care of me and wrapped rocks in cloths and put them where I could find them, weaved beautiful
cloths, cloths that leapt against themselves cloths miry but never sorrowful. I was young then and
I was not unhappy for he was there and I thought all farmers like him. I wanted to stay forever in
that rocking place.
Once,
I bit into and into. Laid out and tried to will into. But I did not know my name nor my children’s
own. Nor that there were things sailed. Nor remaining. Nor things unswallowed and remaining. I
left the farmer one boiling, sweet day. It so happens I grew tired of being a man. There came a
time being a man grew tired and inside me a time came a man, and grew. I remember the farmer
was weeping. I remember the farmer was praying was swaddling me. I remember the cedar that
rushed me. I remember the grew that swelled me. I remember the farmer wrapped a thousand
cloths around a thousand rocks and barks and stumps. But his hands became unencountered.
His eyes like nothing of the earth. My name ripened recurring. And I recognized my father’s
name
Twenty-seven kinds of hungers have led me hereThis rear-landThis behind of clearing placeThis
port of rearward and far away
This loop of former

“Ode” is an excerpt from an untitled long poem in progress.