chinses names

I didnapos;t know I was grateful
            for such late-autumn
                        bent-up cornfields

Yellow in the after-harvest
             sun before the
                        cold plow turns it all over

Into never.
            I didnapos;t know
                        I would enter this music

That translates the world
             back into dirt fields
                         that have always called to me

As if I were a thing
              come from the dirt,
                          like a tuber,

Or like a needful boy. End
             Lonely days, I believe. End the exiled
                           and unraveling strangeness.

--Bruce Weigl

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