Rust

To the old golden shadow
ages go

upward
through finger-traced, rust-writ rivets;

fields folding back,
unfurling black earth,
black night
beneath the silent stream
of tumult stars.

These visions
gather up against
the second-story glass
of hoped marriage near winter;

Then fall,
mud-heeled,
ash-handed
near the knife-swing moon.

All that hard truth of harvest
hovering
over pumpkins,
cold as steel parting
bloodlessly
to flint.

Dawn came
cold-throated,
quiet
as rides back south.

Where my sons
sleep in comfort,

The old world brimming
spark underneath.