"Agribusinesses are the pornographers of American agriculture." --Wendell Berry
Because the fields of phalluses
have not saved us from ourselves,
we've covered what's left of the prairies
with something thicker, taller,
rooted deeper. All up and down Rt. 57,
whole teams of men are erecting wind mills,
shooting up high and fast and powerful
right above the Adult Store in Buckley.
I got off, one night, at the exit to pee,
but was afraid to enter the shop. Afraid
of the porn, I parked behind the shaft
of a silver turbine where it stood, tucked
into the dense, hybrid thicket of DeKalb seed,
and I pissed into the night like an animal.
I marked the place like it belonged to me
and not the women and men who broke down
the arm-thick roots of bluestem with axes and loss.
I wetted the forged-steel base of a power-source
until the moon made it shine like a river stone,
and I started my car up and drove it home.
