My lines are a field of wheat,
rippling under open skies;
an ocean of fresh flame,
filled with diving birds, for field mice.
And my anger is a scythe,
hewing stalks with a swimmer’s strokes.
It flashes in a syncopated
lighthouse rhythm.
My lines are stalks of wheat,
gold hued, that have pressed
through between black clots
of prairie earth, and yearn for sky.
And my anger is a combine,
a troop of slaughtering knives;
relentless war machine that captures
husk and hale to bake for bread.
My lines are a prairie’s bounty,
dappled flank of the earth;
the heaving bay hide that
presses in at every stride.
And my anger is a prairie fire,
galloping in on August heat,
racing effortless through the grain
in shroud of black
smoke of thundering hooves.
I tell you, my lines are life
and my anger – their annihilating doom.