ACTS OF GOD
I.
THE FARM
Before morning the dark western valley of the continent,
the obscure Dakotas, Kansas, and the wheat-withering plains
dream the deep plush of rain on early fields, and when
the night like a tin reflector dewless has pivoted, wake at
sun: a hatred.
Their farmer scrapes with his hoe the uniform heaven: drought,
drought; dust boils to his shack on the noon-burned hillock.
No flowers. His starvelings stare by the twisted doorway; and
mother
grinds from the pump, while the hot nails start in the boards,
her few tears.
The beans counted on dry plate, the dole from the barrel's acrid
staves,
may God grace. Last week from black pasturage the cattle
stooped to
rasp the last mud; now between the dead horns sing
wild blue-green shiny flies; and gnawed bark cracks along
the dead tree tomorrow.
But open the air-cooled humidified the courteous doors
whereto the prosperous motors haul up linen paunches
at evening glad or sorry from the screeching Pit.
Wheat sharply up, chilled soup down; with shriveled beef,
waiter, the ices!
Puzzling by scanty lamp, dusty, sun-swollen, a man's
hands may turn furious and massacre a sheriff; therefore
at 9 P.M. let F. D.'s national smile be hooked
up coast to coast
to
offer across mahogany
cold cream gratis.
"Dear Mr. President: Out here we heard your kind voice
prom1smg.
But August is bad in a mine town. Bread is high, meat not to
touch.
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