The thought of living 
Beyond my means, 
Holed up in a weather-beaten, 
White-washed lean-to 
Amid rustling straw-blonde stalks 
With the vast quietude of a century- 
Old oak to keep me company: 

I push warm hominy 
Against the roof of my mouth, 
Thrusting my stealth tongue 
Upward through layers of whiteness 
Billowing like Illinois cumulus 
-To see an inner clime of blue, 
To taste some distant self.