Philip Kimball

it’s not the  tractor in the fog, the faint percussion in the middle ear, muted and dispersed, popping johnny’s progeny, john deere’s plowbeam, soil-polished plowshare, twelvebottom moldboard suited to the plains. soothing reassurance, stitching air and land, an earthy first fragrance permeates, loess and loam, gasoline, oiled gunny, sweat and rain. it’s not the moiled [...]