Looking back, I overlooked that truth
like a lazy mushroom hunter too foolish
to paw beneath spring's wet leaves. I'd met
my wife at choir, her loveliness less of flesh
than the notion philosophers call essence,
what other men refuse to name for fear
they'll destroy, or understand, it--

either way it's gone, irretrievable
as first-ploughed prairie, its departure
attended by that ripping sound soil makes
as a blade cleaves its weave of big bluestems,
cornflower, chickory and more. Lord
knows, these women have little to show for it:

stooped backs, breasts that sag from their
intended use, a gold ring the only thing
that shines besides their blue-gray eyes,
bright with slant light sluiced through
glazed glass, children too young for lager
circled and shimmering at their feet.