Beyond my means,
Holed up in a weather-beaten,
White-washed lean-to
Amid rustling straw-blonde stalks
With the vast quietude of a century-
Old oak to keep me company:
I push warm hominy
Against the roof of my mouth,
Thrusting my stealth tongue
Upward through layers of whiteness
Billowing like Illinois cumulus
-To see an inner clime of blue,
To taste some distant self.
