For some time they sat in the cornfield
And spoke like dull mice
About what would be done.
When the sun, a ruined fruit
Ripped the dilute garden growth
And spread a red alarm over tall shears
The eldest was heard to say
“Bury them in the cellar.”
Skins of lice lamented
Over the pulsing stalks,
Their drones blanched in the air
Curdled and hot.
The house was distant and brown
Weeping a creeping shadow from within,
That seemed to warn: ‘Keep Out’.
A blaze from the forgotten.
Old plastic swing swung over the perimeter,
A goodbye, flinch.
The sky was high and blue.
In the giant shoots
Lurking softly and surreal,
Two ducklings on the gilded shore.
The sea was swimming with flushed young men
Severing feathered heads
With long silver scissors.
Pointed thorns in a paper box.
The woman roared like the man.
“Stop”, said the girls
With frilled socks.
Once the heavens were purple
Like a bruise, the corn
Grew cold and wet.
The house stood waiting, a deadened bulb
With a swift march
They advanced through the field,