“Imagine” (a conversation poem)

Imagine a very field of wheat that cannot die;
where elephants do not lay down their heads,
or trumpet last, or feast the jackals;
life causing endlessly, effects of life, and on
and on
and on except the wheat has blighted, and you cannot eat;
the elephants are mad with parasites, their rheumy eyes
nagged at by growing swarms of deathless flies,
and we the jackals.
So
we die.

…in conversation with Philip Irving Mitchell (and a fig for Lennon)

(source: Imagine–Peter Gordon Epps)