Hay Men
can a war zone hate in the autumn?
better asked in the spring
life takes on more fecund roles
robins bouncing on the sod
spring peepers drowning out
my dreams
and symphonies of war
germinating in sterile soil
of hatreds and the vibrant world
furrows, like lines in sand,
lie fallow in droughts of compassion
irrigated by greed and ideal
the state, a negligent farmer
the cleric, a dark eyed plowman
and we
the silent few
hang saddened
twisting in a drier wind
stuffed full of straw and tatters
fowling-pieces staked to iron crosses
as crows with crimson eyes
flay the parchment of our skins...
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