The Ruricolist is now available in print.


There is a poem I would like to write
About the airplane lights between the stars:
Unheard on cloudless nights, they do not fall
Now red, now green, and still they do not fall.
Somewhere a poet at thirty thousand feet
Looks down in thought. He sees the night earth black
He sees the city lights, they tint the sky
He stretches out, the engines soothe his bones
He settles in, he summons all his craft
And presses one last drop of grainy oil
From something dry and rancid lodged in him.
I, earthbound, see him passing like a god
And measure poems I may never write.