Walking past a field of golden hay reaped and tied
into retangular bundles, Bo, old stallion, whinnies
as I pass his corral with no carrot and enter a path

where there are only transformations in response
to a demand for greater attention to which not all
readers are willing to respond. The perplexity that
results in this
is often a prelude to breaking out of
regions, countries, religions, and race,
harvesting fields
                                     left
                                        uncut.