The field is not well seen from within the field. 
Emerson

Solitary in the orchard, I wonder:
After last night’s supper, can I forget
the dirt farmer and his hunger? How does he
turn this earth under a single star

after last night’s supper? Can I forget
autumn’s yellow peaches hanging heavy and
turn this earth under a single star
because hunger is human? I want to see

autumn’s yellow peaches hanging heavy and
ready to fall to earth; I can’t see anything
because hunger is human. I want to see,
so I throw salt over my shoulder,

ready to fall to earth. I can’t see anything
in this sintering heat (it’s like a mirage),
so I throw salt over my shoulder.
Earth, it’s just dirt under the sun.

In this sintering heat, it’s like a mirage,
terra firma, because no one gives thanks for
earth—it’s just dirt under the sun.
I’d settle for the boiled-down version of

terra firma because no one gives thanks for
a taste of salt to forestall his decay.
I’d settle for a boiled-down version of
the truth, but can’t feed my friend

a taste of salt to forestall his decay.
I’m hungry all the time in the heat of
the truth but can’t feed my friend,
so I throw salt over my shoulder.