A poem based on The Pale King by David Foster Wallace
By Cynthia McGarvie
An alfalfa breeze.
Socks’ burrs.
Dry scratching inside a culvert.
Rusted wire
incised in the sun
all day until hardened,
worms incised in the lead.
A horse
smells the worms incised in the wing,
silent with intent.
Corn,
bound for the intent,
for the worms incised in corn
bound for the sun all day until hardened,
there to stay.
Tiny vacant lines in rows
incised the pasture’s wire,
and, incised in the pasture’s wire,
tilted
more.
Permission granted by the David Foster Wallace Literary Trust
Category: Poetry