Field-reek of pig shit, hen shit, any shit
no less pungent for anonymity
as to phylum, genus, species, feces
laurel-strewn by horses adding to it
as they lug the steel disc picturesquely
across brown hills that dip and heave like guts
trodden by men who dampen in man sweat
that trickles into creeks that feed the sea.
Thus from shit and armpits are the seas fed.
And the multitudes who insist on more
and cheaper plus convenience and go forth
to multiply and buy their daily bread.
And the seas return what they’ve been given:
salt-sting and the dead-things stink of heaven.
by Ed Granger
Editor’s Note: Some sonnets do better with slant-rhyme and imperfect meter. The volta at the end of this poem is, however, quite on point.