The sky is full of sun, immense with heat
Twisting the mind upon itself. It seems
To make the thin blue atmosphere retreat
Into a height of no computing yet
Lie heavily upon the shoulders wet
And dusty, upon denim wet as dreams.
The nose secretes a sticky lubricant
Beneath the glasses dusty as the wheat,
And temples burn against the plastic bent
Behind the ears. Sweat gathers dust in streaks.
And two hot hours become as many weeks
When one wears dusty hells upon his feet.
Sweat becomes a casing to the skin.
The stubble stands like toothpicks, and the clear
Sky wraps the wet allergic body in
Wool temperature. Sun on the backs of hands,
Sun shining on the sweating arm that stands
The wheat in shocks—the sun is atmosphere
Burning its entrails into endless time
With a strange enterprise, like alchemy,
That issues into wheat. And men begrime
Themselves with thirsts for its expensive grain
Beautiful as labor, but remain
Burning like suns in a cold eternity.
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