GIVE me your anathema.
Speak new damnations on my head.
The evening mist in the hills is soft.
The boulders on the road say communion.
The farm dogs look out of their eyes and keep thoughts from the corn cribs.
Dirt of the reeling earth holds horseshoes.
The rings in the whiffletree count their secrets.
Come on, you.

Added: Feb 4 2004 | Viewed: 1698 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Carl Sandburg
Poem: 3. Whiffletree
Volume: Smoke and Steel
- X. Panels
Year: Published/Written in 1922
Poem of the Day: Aug 7 2004
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