What the heck is a poem?"" asks Peck and we really can't do better than to let this hunk of verse speak for itself. And as he promises, it sort of ""squats down unedited"" on the page: (1) "". . . From rows of cows, as brown as wooden pews,/ I take up my collection. There I squeeze/ White kindly milk from each parishoner./ I work instead of pray there, on my knees. . ."" (2) "". . . The days of November were deepening gray./ Closer and closer and closer the day/ That I knew would arrive. How I hated our clock./ Each tick made the knowing as heavy as rock. . . "" (3) "". . . Savor every drop. For soon/ We soak our heads beneath the pump./ Because there is no swimming when/ Cruel August drains away the sump."" Poetry aside, what the heck is this? And how much corn can you peck?