SWEEPING ELEGY FOR NATIVE GRASS Caroline Klocksiem

Wherefore—and woe—thy human hope/still holds in rich peat sockets of a chest/fixed fast as the mare’s brown/bridle, that silly harness of Oklahomic /heart? In a purse, gold coin/drawn tight. Fortitude, yes, but/the test—how ready is thy hand, how/steady, nesters, art thou hands?