76.

These bones on the prairies are frozen

to the marrow: the riverbed riffles

with wind through the long brown grasses

the stubble from harvest toppled

by snow against the wire fences. The short days

weigh the soul like blanched straw

after baling. There have always

been those who collect rents

and waste the land, shrink

the summer, lace the blood

with a slow poison. Some lazy greed

gives no rest to the dreamless head.