We husked corn by the farm stand,
the sweet tug of green loosing
from the rind into our hands.
Later, in your kitchen,
we eat peach pie with our raw fingers
and discuss politics:
Charlottesville, the white
supremacists, the mowing down
It is late summer, the time when not much matters.
School will begin again, the whole cycle—
an old crispness descending upon the air.
I want to talk about the corn: the raw beads
gleaming hard stripped from their husks.
What joy in such small violence! The sun
yellow and high above our necks,
our palms laced red with effort.
From the car, the long fields of central Jersey
rolled past the windows: an endless
sequence of lushness and death,
lushness and death.