Harvest

Coat-edges
whisper
barrel-soaked
with smokestack,

harvest,

curbside
argument
layered in key and flint,
companion
glint hanging
off of
years
and cellar
hinge.

All
still as
lamplight
in Prairie du Chien

and Sunday coming;

spokes in
telephone poles

and that walk.

That walking;

Forest-facing
broken boiler
dream
beneath the moon.

All night,
each manner of glow
blooming
slack-action,

Those spiders
on the laundry lines,

Unharvested fields
An unbundled freight of shadow
and alarm.

These children meet,

and are unnmet.

That's Halloween -
its dark rivers
in the middle of
The States.

The
church-window
unkept,
the cornfields
murmuring
their own outlines
in the
hatchet-swing dark.

And harvest half-asleep.

A grinning death, afire.