I want to pick the silk from corn husks, peeling
the threads to penetrate the kernels, checking
for rotten maize. These days, I get the feeling
there's corn in everything. The hens are pecking
at gasoline and packaged beef, running coops
on dog food, driving down to superstores
for specials while they cluck about the hoops
required to use their coupons. All the floors
are cleaned between the hours of five and six;
by nine, the food aisles smell of salt and butter,
and hippie chickens try to get their fix
by fondling co-op corn in cookie-cutter
organic food departments, getting young
girls drunk in corn's sweet realm of silk and dung.
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