A Gold Rain at Lonelyfarm
That rare peculiar rain comes heightening,
turns the clay gold from red.
And for a while, the after-rain light
delays dark settling in.
A sorry patch of tobacco leaves waves.
It slopes away to the road.
Lightning bugs whiten the weedhairs,
some loose ones by the back steps.
Itíll be coming dark now.
Darkíll come and be my fault.
What I want and my fault,
darkíll move on the house in the field.
(First published in Fine Madness.