Song of Myself

　　by John Canaday

　　 I am a stubborn ox dreaming

　　 of rain as the drover's fingers drum

　　 around my eyes. But no： the wet

　　 hum of flies distracted me，

　　 and now the plow has drifted from

　　 the line I meant to follow. See

　　 where the damp leather of the reins

　　 has worn the callus on my left

　　 forefinger raw？ Or was it the dry，

　　 ash handle of my hoe？ I can hear

　　 the steel head singing as it strikes

　　 rocky ground， the fresh-turned earth

　　 swallowing showers of sparks. The tip

　　 of my tongue goes dry. I touch my lips

　　 to the soil as I once touched you， here

　　 and there. A single knot of dirt

　　 crumbles slowly in my mouth

　　 with the taste of sweet butter dripping

　　 from your thumb. This ground will raise

　　 a heavy crop. I am the wheat

　　 that flowed around your waist like water.

　　 I am that lonely knot of earth.