.
I am searching for a poet
who doesn’t mention or even
allude to death, doesn’t drive
a tractor through death
and doesn’t plant in fertiliser
that was death bringing new life.
None of that. Only letters
in stasis, eternal moments,
and deathless sex. I am searching
for that poet with long steps
across the furrows, along
the firebreaks, and past
the tall silver sheds.
I have a copy of Emily
Dickinson’s poetry
in my hands so I can
(when I find them) point
them to the dashes so they
might see where they lead.
Sky heavy, soil desperate
from rain, and prayers
swept away by strong winds
without death to anchor them.
.
John Kinsella
.