The St. Jo River whirling full around
the South Bend rich and dark as a negresse
en chemise bedaubed with cochineal:
mauve, purple tinting the water
from the Odilon Redon sun setting.
As we drove, the sunset fell over “The Goats” in Peru, Indiana
and a crescent moon came up the color of tamarind.
By day, the steppes, the steppes, the steppes!
Mile on mile of flat corn and scattered copses
where Europeans turn into well-off peasantry.
Land! The whole shot through with vacancy.
And yet, poetry lies in a painting of merest normalcy.
—Anthony Kerrigan
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
The Summer Reading List: 2026
A 2025 YouGov poll revealed some interesting factoids about Americans’ reading habits—or lack thereof. Forty percent of…
To Live Fittingly
Why do the humanities face such a hostile climate? In part it’s because academics have excluded ordinary,…
The Sun Also Rises at 100
The Hemingway style—terse, direct, formidable, in both prose and personal deportment—dominated American literature and the native ideal…
