Poetry Maureen N. McLane The farmer eats shit / because he can / and likes it Myron Stout, Untitled . No date, charcoal on Strathmore paper. 25 1/8 × 19". Photo by Justin Craun. Courtesy of Peter Freeman, Inc., New York/Paris. Gloucester We didn’t board the whale watch and we missed the sunset off the breakwater, likewise sunrise at Land’s End. Were we there at all. It seems we never met yet the calendar says we did. Google Calendar. My life’s in the cloud. A record of it, partial. To record was one thing in the 18th century, something else now, but still the fleeting finds its encoders, memorious. The familiar sickness on me, let’s bury the old forms and grids. Then let’s graverob ourselves. Go graverobbing. Was that the sound of old sobbing the sobbing just now of a gull? a bark or a laugh or a bark of a laugh? A full haul the trawler’s bringing in — I am half dead but hey. Glass half full. Half a loaf. A butt end of a day. A way.…