Christ. 388 days and the tundra
is still expansively contracting.
Fields of green and brown corn
have turned shit and soil brown,
laced with remanded snow
and lingering ice. It was once
explained to me when I was
very young: in the winter
the world sleeps
and the soil rests
to prepare for the spring
for what was once a plow
but is now a machine that cuts
more and better; plus, the cost
is more and better than most
houses and has taken the place
of hundreds of men and
man hours. It's big business here
and the corn is owned by companies
and seeds, like our future is copyrighted
by the anonymous holding company
that bought our parents' futures
cheap with promises
of a peaceful old age replete
with fat corn fed dreams.