The Mare of Money (audio only)
Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.
Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.
Fuss, fight, and cutting the huckley-buck—Dear Malindy,
Underground, must I always return to the country of the dead,
To the coons catting about in the trees, the North Carolina pines
Chattering about sweetening bodies in their green whirring?
Do these letters predict my death—some sound of a twig
Breaking then a constant drowning—a butter bean drying
I.M. of David Ferry
The mouths of the bankers are closed. The secret
Police dream of hanging and hang. The gallows
Lay down upon the hill and refuse the money
They are paid. The drowsy crows stand on the eaves,