From the Fishouse

Little wheel

something gnarls in the blood

in our Arcadia of mayflies.

We make wine from muscadines,

little wheel turning inside my heart.

In January after the crop

floats to Apalachee

other cargo arrives—old men

boot-blacked before the auction block.

Shawl of cassimere, calamus-

root, one small revolver

on offer at Muse & Co.

Little wheel turning, gossypium

grows gossypium grows

along the roads.

Cotton alone does not spin

into cloth the bridge itself

does not burn little wheel

turning inside my heart

what’s been must be storied

grist mill cotton gin

what’s invented inventoried