the secret of the cotton

cotton ought to sing. (memory’s does)
white-capped monks kneeling in dirt,
song and the alliterative like.

through it all, there are the high notes,
the high point, remember?
the men touching, and then finally,
the truth of it all, at last. my soul. my soul.

God, the euphoria!

-----

Uncle Si

Old Uncle Si
with long legs
and
promising
summit

Now
with the passing of
one moon, one sun
I see his oath to me
as vapor

just clouds in the old man's eye.

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