Meg Porter:  

e bread smelted forth out a great silent machine, round and gray towers with a day's worth of bread. Traded from behind the counters of drug stores and day-old places, full of handwritten credits. The salesgirl's face the same over and over from the liquor shops to the mercantile where all the women felt the worth of yards of gingham with garden tended hands stuck in apron pockets over poodle pieces and last year's dresses and as they fondled bolts of laundry hung to dry out on sagging lines nearwhere the stockyard blood soaked into saw dust from coin-op horses, they sang benedictions to another day older and deeper in debt, what you get from eight hours in the mineral graves the new fangled loaves to six yards of eyelet. Before the burns and infestations, the migrations of paisley, the formation of smokes over the Dead Sea downwind from Cananea pleurosis-nervosis in most of us. The commemorations, handmade and so trusted the dusting powders and ore cars full of snuff, Yardley Rose of Avon, poor damn Lucky Strike. The seas too dried to part. ORSON: I found this poem absolutely buried at the end of responses to my interview with that questonable fellow, Joe Green. This is a good poem. Why place it there? CALICOE: Because, um, I think it belonged there under the other one? Actually, it is because I write so damn much and feel sometimes like I monopolize things a bit. Most of what I write is only practice and most likely will and should be forgotten. In that particular thread the conversation had veered into the pope and his indecencies to boys in that certain Catholic way and then on to Sister Josepha who was perhaps the only real witch I ever met (although there was the Black Widow from Babdaa, a Lebanese woman who moved to Bisbee, an actress from the Broadway stage, who sought to hamper me in my efforts with a certain young man from her country. She in turn married a 'good old boy' from there, for his money, and proceed