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Hay Scuttle

ISSUE:  Autumn 1980

The holes in the floor of the barn loft
were cut for dropping shucks to the stalls.
Pile an armload on the opening
and stuff them through. The cow
is already eating as the rest
splash on her head. The fodder sweet
as tobacco is pushed down for the horse.
Light from below rises with manure
and warm cud-breath.
And bleach from the horse’s bed.
Dark up here with the dead grass
and cornsheller, except for the trapdoors.
Only way out to the sun is down,
through the exquisite filth.


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