Three Poems
Jon Cone

A Variant:
from William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury

They hit.
The flag pulls the wind.
Along the fence he moved.
In the grass they hid.

They hit some more.
Went to the flag.
It was red in the red wind.
By the fence they lost a penny.

Find the penny, someone said.
Find it or Ma get madder than heck.
You bein thirty-three year old.
Caint tie your own damn shoe.

They find the penny.
In the grass by the fence.
They hit. He hit. They hit.
Luster mean light.

Blues
On this rough round hill
I come to mourn,
by playing low
my tenor horn.

[Untitled]
Scudding light
rounds
a fice dog's
shadow.

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