Earth-that old-hat phrase of superseded days—
goes red with my slack-satin flowers,
my poppies; my cornflowers of absolute blue—
both mix into my wheat. Also out of the ears
with which it’s level stares each sepal-criss-
crossed flat corncockle eye,
magenta, without a blink the whole
day into the hot sky.
Lady, not now. Lady in whose gay
bleached hair were ears of wheat with poppies if not corn-
flowers and cockles mixed, and in your south love-
in-the-mist and black-pupiled scarlet pheasant’s eye,
Sunburned Ceres, you must understand (you catch my
tone) that now across all plains-no longer fields—
your very carefully treated wheat must be
a clean stand for maximated yields.
Our bodily, of course our economic and our
advertising needs
permit, Lady, except among peasants backward on thin soil,
no sprinkling of bright weeds.
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