Furrow -- Jeanne Heuving

How all is a fertile field ever threatening

Plowed too close like an ominous sky

Disappointment wanting to shut down

Earth ever opened the possibility of

Into the plowed furrowed lined earth

A fertile plow into the staid forestation

Into the silvered peat moss lined with

A jewelry box felted with diamonds

A heavy sky weeps with adulation

A long yellow undulation in the sky

Searing the dogs of Europe, hypocrite,

Lecteur, O keep the dogs far hence,

Traveling the horizon in great strides

Spills down from the sky, fissuring

Silver rivulets of earth-felled dawn

Etched mercury in blasted abutments

Gray mazy cells to pick from other

Culled picked through, picked over

seeds with their little hooded black jackets

carapace of insect left to wither in the wind

to mash with a mallet to get the insides out

harvested when a light brown with turn black

a round hole bored in the seed by a weevil

seeds of the penstemons and the mulleins

are easy to remove by the crushing method

to remove the seeds head the cones must be

split open washed inside minute stuffs

the possibility of light falling onto his face

the possibility of walking into a sunlight alcove

the sunlit alcove fitting rippling like a glove

the glove moving from finger tip to forearm

silky on flesh receptive to being touched

the possibility of violence to this face

love ever gone over into this new death

deadening hollow little black seeds refusing

to uncoat, coated soldiers on black steeds

this morrow ever turning onto itself

What does not go away this

What does not go away this

Mascared eyes, Cleopatra

Charcoaled Marlene Dietrich

Wanting at the grave as it

Descend into pasturelands

Green rolling, swollen

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