First it is over.
Then the moon pulls out its hands.
Now death’s, what, real? The wind
shuffles through the wheat, trying
to find the right souvenir. The old maple
washes its armpits in the moonlight.
What is over? I’m not sure. I can hear
an owl breathing into a rusted flute.
The wind again. The wheat becomes physical,
a crowd pushing toward the road. Hay bales
hunch against the touch of the wind as if they have
learned to be scared. What would people say about this
through the sprawled telephone wires
of the county? Do they think the sky’s
packing all the light into a moon? Just thinking of my life
can make it disappear. I close my eyes.
It’s the rain I feel now. I do. The drops
coming down with all the dead’s faces
to look into mine.