i am witness to the threshing of the grain

i am witness to the threshing of the grain
the man of corn
from a dry oak bough

bade us to be silent in our flailing 
he bade us 
		the understanding that pervades 
		the silence that is veiled 
his whisper is no louder than the locust

bade us no louder
			whrr chk chk
			whrr whrr chk chk 
flailed man threshed and scythed 
hung man of the harvest 
wheat bearded one 

none the mistletoe on our
thus man sheared by the sun 
sterile fruit of the dry oak bough

	turned gently to caress
	a wing of crows
	and turned
	and saw
	and bade us to be

Journey to the End


On a little peninsula 
In a dredged-out bay
An old man with a sack
Upon his shoulder
Feeds the crows



Along a tiny peninsula
As white as salt
An old man with a heavy sack
Upon his shoulder
Saunters feeding



Cinematomorphic flashes from
Peninsular train windows
Railroad the complete splitting
Of the crow-peopled cosmogony:
(Yet knowing that to be
Is better than to be going.)



Apocalyptics unanimous
Disengage and deburrow
Black as corby night descends
The moon knifes down 
Upon the tiny salt-flat-white



An old man with a heavy sack
Flings it to the crows.


As the wind unscatters me
Spindle hurricanes unwind
Direction from my horizontal eye

Blow down the ocean’s fences
And approach my wreckless remnant
Bones bedenizened by birds:

Or contrive a moment from
Whatever sheaf of breath remains
To edge a word along a wind-left wall.


Where broken clouds lay dripping
On the edges of the afternoon
Our footprints littered summer’s beach
Abandoning lying driftwood
Torn pictures old letters and the death-buzz
Of flies against the murderous dunes
Returning was to die of thirst
Or see the sun possessed descend
And dive past wet horizons