Harvest, by Gary Soto

East of the sun’s slant, in the vineyard that never failed,

A wind crossed my face, moving the dust

And a portion of my voice a step closer to a new year.

The sky went black in the 9th hour of rolling trays,

And in the distance ropes of rain dropped to pull me

From the thick harvest that was not mine.

From “The Pittsburgh Book Of Contemporary American Poetry,” edited by Ed Ochester and Peter Oresick (University Of Pittsburgh Press: 398 pp., $15.95) Copyright 1997 Reprinted by permission.