That field behind the barn
across the road,
how it once perfected your desires
in summer sun . . .

To sit in that grass right now,
would you offer up a poem?
Let the eyes of orioles fund you—
let the wind publish you on leaves?

All right, draw one more sip
of your mint julep,
and better make it a good one,
because what if tonight

someone sneaks into your office,
swallows your celebrated ink pens,
and stuffs the jar
with the barbed quills of a dead porcupine?