the fields of dispossessing
have passed to other hands,
that is, i think,
tradition in these lands

and all lands, actually

the summer rains are sweltering
and we've been helter-skeltering
and sheltering
and harboring our fears,
but those we packed up with

the little bit of pride that we had left.

there is no steinbeck here,
no chronicle of what we had and lost,
that's somehow lyrical

it's just a bunch of mud
and

generations