The lank leaves offer her a little shade,
But still she hates the dust of the clay road
And noon’s bright clang on the cannery roof.
The revivalists have set up a tent.
All day it’s glowed with a yellow fever.
For her, the rifted hardpan stands hard proof
Of this world that the body must endure.
The soul, too, like money must finally be spent.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 7 Number 8, on page 41
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