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My clothes all caked with tar and salt and grit and sticky black tobacco gum, I scrub I dunk my head again until I hit slick bottom of the rippled metal tub Run through white arcing pulse, we irrigate the bunkhouse wall, and head to town for beer Cicada song and souls reverberate though God-damn feckin morning always near Til next time I bolt up from sleepy fog with arms a-priming, like a dreamin dog SPACE Farmall [2] Education for Sean Steel stalk-cutting time in sun so clear and hard breathing again after tobacco harvest the workers gone a whole bright echoing field of stripped stakes like tall knobbled legs in ruffled panties with suckers coming in above their absent leaves they fall beneath my plywood shield in an endless deep crunching crisp canes give to cutter-blades hitched behind the dull red 140, smelling of barn dust, old rope, and grease teardrop-handled levers, cracked wheel, sprung seat stuffing and shreds of all the fertilizer bags I lifted bent diamond-plate grit-worn to silver and rust standing on the clutch with both feet clanking pins, bones, and chains the tractors whistling fur-edged chug blunted by my bundled hood and the shady peak of my dads green Vorlex cap below embroidered sign of golden leaf brown knot-buttoned sweater, caramel warmth knit into cables and wales, heathered grimy grey plaid pants and rubber boots the rows, they scissor past and past muffler lulled by flapping weather-shield hypnotic nodding hinge and rhythmic ring revolving treads braid loops in sandy soil my eyes drift, fingers loosen blurring the fountaining rain of citrine leaves and pink trumpet blossoms sticky flecks bitter on my lips exhaust sweet against my face like heat SPACE Field Notes Topping / suckering : Walk the field, arms overhead pain of impact, cracking canes / Frisk plants with Saturday-night backseat passion pinch budding growths at the V of stalk and leaf Water jug : always at the other end of the field Harvest : in Southwestern Ontario second week of August til late September or first frost

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