GREEN AND FENCES
the field tracks were metallic but these people’s rickety stance
handcuffed the mud’s flexibility like encouragement
their naked backs glued to the knife-shaped maize leaves
and ribs each year another shade of glossy green
like a set of numbers buried inside the flesh that mustn’t be mistaken
an acrid blood group escorting ears of grain
returned to the levied colours grouted in by each year’s Grave-Sweeping Day
everywhere the sound of jointing crops reciting their prison term
with the flavour of the fields and gardens the flavour of thirst
commanding the well to fall endlessly into zero’s depth
their vastness squatting by the wellhead mounting quail
and voles a near-colour-blind poem the same as the skyline
they couldn’t see the womb’s curse
still contracting a line of green fences locking in breath
stretch to the horizon suckering sunsets still swarthy
and wordless life imprisoned in a silent rumination
coarse china bowls held in both hands balanced the rouged and painted years
not meaning anything not even the game of filling in the green blanks
had any meaning wiping the spittle of denunciation from their faces
they conscientiously wiped the plough clean
