"Past the Erland Lee"

The decision to close the Erland Lee house has left me looking for a new place to host my annual Erland Lee poetry readings. I feel like a poet without a poem:

For where is the field, a silly 'ol mole
whos's made his ear as black as coal?
The leaf (of Nature) in Marjorie's shawl,
ol' red barn and a girl's leathery doll?

Who left the umph in the farmer's knee,
or stilled the guns of the gristly bee?


I've speculated on the reasons why & find it has everything to do with a growing distrust of surrounding fields and roads. I can feel the hatred of trustees threatened by solitary backlots. I can barely get the words out, in my astonishment, or keep the verses even. The Strangler is heard to say:

Look past the Erland Lee

Or kill that which leads to polyvocity/ Who'er came...
Who'ever came up with that or the
Farm's inner Tree Or that clearance
  of backlots is not A solitary but
  complex field or a Sensuous compiler
  of seed and interrelated types
  of a mossy handheld
Saw

   A soily brown, & of itself / Irrigated and...
Irrigated and dessicated field of
Charted conformity reduces to
Outlying shrubs and thistly rows
Of ghostly Others, after which
Punchbowls, rabbit ears
& nests never see each other more
(Both before and after the rain,
And up to the moment when
Merged two main arteries
To gouge out an escarpment of
Shales below)

    And field without a carriage house—
Blood of topsoil without roots,
Is deeply hurtful. Ferns
Only are a brimful unity,
At best