Immense Fields of Work
       

Waking up to the gray farm redoubles your doubts.
        All fall down. "Tucker?"
A row of cantaloupes in the garden freaking you out
        like rippled faces where narcissus French kisses
the infested pond. They dreamed and they dreamed
        and they dreamed of out west, antelope, log cabins,
but rats scratched their way through the arteries
        of their lives. "I can sing really well," I told Tucker.
"Fucker!" he said when he stubbed his toe on
        my guitar. It was a warm day and the next
day was warmer. Each cold storm had, at its
        center, a hollow fruit. Then I opened the window, saw
a stranger smashing the cantaloupes with that guitar.
        Seeds everywhere seeds. Six strings.

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Copyright © 2014 Sandra Simonds All rights reserved
from The Sonnets
Bloof Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission