#307: February 24, 2007

Some mornings when he woke up, and the wind
rattled the glass and roared like ocean waves
across the plains, a tumult in the wheat
and scrub snaked once or twice against the breeze,
just so that, to a man still half in dreams,
it might appear that something shifted there
unseen between the stalks, beneath the grain.

And late at night, thinking of how he'd sinned
those years ago, and of those shallow graves
between the amber rows tucked snug and neat,
he wondered what rough beast lurked in the seas
of those deep fields, whose shrill unearthly screams
on moonless nights laid all his evils bare,
and disinterred the corpses in his brain.