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 More on poetry from The Atlantic Monthly. Also by Robert Wrigley: Highway 12, Just East of Paradise, Idaho (2001) |
Winter Bale
by Robert Wrigley .....  Hear Robert Wrigley read this poem (in RealAudio)Not a scent so much as a bouquet of smells, that stable: old wood, horseflesh, the sweet round buds of manure; molasses, oats, leather, hay. In the ancient bushel basket a nest of twine, now the red taut plunk of it cut from the bale, as puffed up out of the flakes comes dust from the fields a year before, and a stiff, sleepy bull snake oozes across the cold floor and into the stall where the edgy stallion waits for hay.
Copyright © 2001 by The Atlantic Monthly Group. All rights reserved. The Atlantic Monthly; October 2001; Winter Bale; Volume 288, No. 3; 58. |
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