A young man swings from the arms

all wrong if there's hay to mow

the hips must rotate first

then back and arms together

driving off the legs

a pendulum of method

easy later, years later

and harder than imagined

if there's hot sun overhead

muscles cramping

or if the mind keeps coming back

to a woman somewhere



The best poems drive off the legs as well

no effort wasted following

a natural arc of back and forth

around and through



I try to learn the art of the scythe

cutting away not grain nor grass nor thistle

but edifice, contrivance, camouflage

this stuff packed round and held in place

with garden hose, bailing wire, military webbing—I am

a fiddler crab in my way

lurching forward waving

one blind blade

at the world