Cyberhill
Our old buggywheel, horse-plow,
pass the corn-cabbage-potato-beef
and let’s talk about good and bad
knees, winter blankets, resurrection,
more or less kids, the next war
a million miles away from our
geese-deer-riverfishing universe,
sliding into the bed-now, sleep-
now, eyes, ears, nose and throat
instead of iPodding out sound and
cellphoning through the obliviousness
of winter, spring, summer anything,
hard to believe in the Amorites, Moses,
Cromwell, Pius the Thousand and First,
Harry Pottering reality into You Think
It, You Create it, driving through a
million acres of Sunday afternoon
farmland/houses and there’s one guy
cutting the grass, that’s it.
Hugh Fox is just back from Brazil (50 poems written in Portuguese), mainly involved with online mags and publishers these days, finding the print world kind of like the Mafiosos fighting with the Irish Republican Army in 1923. His latest book is The Collected Poetry of Hugh Fox, 1967-2007 (World Audience).
