Cornfields, or, a Lesson in Choice

Cornfields, or, a Lesson in Choice

“This field looks awfully barren”,
he said, looking out the windows.
“This field looks free”
I thought, leaning over his arm.
“It’s true”, he said, “they picked all the corn last week.”
“I know” I said.
They were storing it in the silo,
surrounded by crows pecking holes in the earth,
hoping to unearth a tight yellow seedling.
“I would like to be a farmer”, he told me.
“I’d like that”, I said,
“For then I’d till my own field,
and not keep it barren, but free”
I thought.

Decisions, or, the not quite a wedding planning

Emily cooking dinner, Bouillabaisse
(that is bull-ye-base)
lamented whether or not to sear the araignées de mer
or the gilt-head bream,
while Vincent, studying at the Nonconformist Mortuary Chapel
(now Crematorium)
sat perusing his texts.
"They have catafalques for 3,
for parents decided to cease their tedious lives
should their child succumb to marthambles.
And preposterous caskets
(purchased for 332.31 pence)
shaped like ballet pantofles or corkscrews.
A woman from Ottery St. Catchpole,
she did that a fortnight ago,
a cask where she's fixed in a grand jeté."
Emily, cooking dinner, Bouillabaisse
(that is bull-ye-base)
realised her lamenting over the searing of the araignées de mer
or the gilt-head bream,
instead seemed averagely monotonous.