A White Sun

​A soft, rotting depression
In the soil and a white sun
That blazes and whitens the sky
Into oblivion,

Over a field of sweet-smelling
Hay. This is my field,
My sun, these spots of decaying
Hay as well, unhealed--

Or smoke it out, if possible--
Because there is no field
That does not have spoiled grass
Where the scuttering mice are revealed,

And when it is turned up
By the harrow, in its shame,
It dries in the heat of the sun
And smoke rises from its flame.