all the translations gone
cultivatingly wild
through august all aster and goldenrod
dance sow thistle threads
and milkweed heads
bent and spread
dry stalk soon
bleached to a grey reserve
lent to the spent
sparkle
hay dust in barn light explodes
and barn still stands
beaming
were i building
were i stoic
i would endure
more grasping your making
only to squander
the renderings
in the stray idiom
of our movement
cultivatingly wild