The August sun starts in against the green
And rugged Kansas grain.
The rented Dodge whines on through heat so candid

It puts last year, its palmy days of arak
And cloudy rhetoric,
Flatly in the shade. The very air

Above the pavement wilts, yet feed corn grows
In ranks of tasseled scarecrows
So tall a boy could lose his way in it.

The posted fields shoot past, glaring bad rhymes,
Flashing close shaves, cheap rooms,
The shrike's barbed-wire kabob of bug and vole.

Poor, starchy soul, this dry plain seems to say,
Unsoiled habitué
Of souks, casinos, elevating tells,

There are certain states that you must work
Yourself not up but back
Down into. Like the first. Stop here, dig in,

Study the disc, the sprouting stump, cicadas,
And all of those old saws.
Acknowledge the corn: you've been plowing sand.

No root, no fruit. So come on down to earth—
Maybe you'll spring up yet,
Giving as good as you are bound to get.