Scythe hung in
a barn. A
burner I had
half harangued
half carefully
assuaged next
to it. I think the
lamps
unsheathe the
blade I think
the shadows
like half moons
harass the
livestock I
think the door
planks splinter
the ungloved.
I’m infatuated
by its rusted
charm. Sit
upon this
haystack and
give myself half
an hour to man
up to stop the
clock on the
nail and just let
blood. |
