VERSE:

...4, PHENYL-MERCURY The old Fordson tractor just like the ones you saw in Geography book pictures of England pulled father and the rig splockity sploosh through rancid mud while poems by Witter Bynner oozed through him the iron cleat wheels grinding into the mud like a mixer belly-deep the crank monster wallowing Socrates Smith in the sprayer cage washed the Baldwin trees with his broom-gun dosing the mites, drowning the insidious bugs before the poison could be lethal and the farm dog bit at the rubber tires of the Friend spray-rig my uncle hitching a team to un-mud the machine Socrates and father watching three birds cleaning out a briar I think of it at a concert The orchard a paved lot my memories a lie...