My poetry now mostly harvests: the ignorant farmer who never rotates or lets the land lay fallow. By and by the crop thins, the wheat mere wisps, the corn bound to crumble in a simple wind. But still the farmer–still he wrests the diminished gains until the place fallows for the soil’s survival. But here analogy gives way because, unlike the old-time farmer who moves on and destroys more land, my poetry stays. Bear with me soil. Bear with me.