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Dave Bonta
the farmers of chance eat for nothing
every man intent upon his belly
satisfied by the offer of
a good cuff on the chops
as full as a leopard
known to take heart at a great supper
HOKUSAI'S portrait of himself
Tells what his hat was like
And his arms and legs. The only faces
Are a river and a mountain
And two laughing farmers.
The smile of Hokusai is under his hat.
Bury this old Illinois farmer with respect.
He slept the Illinois nights of his life after days of work
in Illinois cornfields.
Now he goes on a long sleep.
The wind he listened to in the cornsilk and the tassels,
the wind that combed his red beard zero mornings
when the snow lay white on the yellow ears in the
bushel basket at the corncrib,
The same wind will now blow over the place here where
his hands must dream of Illinois corn.