Here I’m sitting on the bed,
I can see all the way out to the doorway,
I can see
my wintercoat, my hat,
my scarf
on the hanger.
Why not
my wintercoat, my hat
my scarf
sitting here on the bed,
and me hanging
on the hanger?
Would they watch me?
seasons merchant brings the harvest
flesh ripened berries and firm apples
john deere’s wander fields
barns fill with crop,
barricades still out against winter
last flush of heat clinging on
birds on the cusp of migration
still hold a note in song,
and i face my execution
she had wanted me for years
now i was disposable,
unable to plow fields
and seed a decent crop
inverted hearts adorn the page,
and i find the porch
for sleeping some more,
i wish the merchant did not
expect so much,
being a simple man
i was now to be abandoned
she could make her heart autonomous
it had to turn inside
beneath her maiden outlines
no flesh expanded as she expected,
evicted to the car
its vinyl bench with no pillow
woke one morning and drove
leaving her and her field
to be sown by another
in spring
bones where our fathers sleep
forgotten beneath the stairs,
theater of the virgin daughter has begun
left the abyss
rode naked beneath a harvest sky,
flowers once cast upon the river
caught by rising fishes
their illiterate world
tensed and sure,
this has to be the darkest season
of blood not drawn by knife
but fear of the morning hill,
normal day without monsters
forged on sleeping mental despair,
no amount of her is aimless,
violets had been crushed on the lawn
buzzards had become trapped in
rivers sediment,
wrapped in fabric woven with
delusion and anagrams of what
love should of brought,
bands of gold encircle retinas flourish,
she has found a new way
more than chromosomes shared with
other mammals,
she raises a visible alarm,
society dissected under assured touch
and found the moon wanting,
no more to be buried side by side
eternal would be joy and dance,
then we sleep
velvetmedia 