I do not know if the thing is phony
Glass-like, with glistening dew-drops
Of a morning vision on windshield,
Pearl-glass that breaks in little coins
On endless highways, on mild impact
Of metallic bodies with drunk men.
Some cars have steam on bonnets
Like bees, in spring, on the stone.
Our vision is partly crowded, you see
With birds hiding dust in the east
That has turned orange at sunrise
A phony vision, it is partly clouded. On the highway there are no houses
Only string cots for our dream sleep
On glasses of buttermilk, hot breads.
We have whites on our mustaches
Of too much buttermilk in throats. You crinkle eyes enough and you will see
Wet buffaloes calmly chewing their cud
In tin sheds that jump out of green fields
Their milk sloshing in their pink udders.
Luckily their tail-flies and smells fly away
Into tree-tops, waking the morning birds,
A phony vision indeed, partly clouded. The sunflower beds have darker kids
That smile nicely of a little alphabet,
Like flowers that turned deep inward
When the sun went behind the hills.
Their little bees have nowhere to go,
Wait; let the sun come from the hills.
The village school is closed for today
In honor of the guests on the string cot
The sunflowers will open with the wind
And the shadows will creep up slowly
Behind the buffaloes, with eyes closed
Their mandibles moving up and down.
The vision is clouded, a phony vision
Caused by much emotion in the eyes.