The scare-crow is strung up,
sullen in the bled field.
He is bruise-packed; soaked and seed-shedding
in the wet, tangerine night.
The rain runs down fence posts,
and collects in the road. The dog
sleeps on the covered porch;
somewhere, the cat listens.
The grass around the driveway
has grayed and bends low,
The tractor like a tin drum.
A torn, disintegrating tarp
in the rafters of the barn
moves in the wind.
The children have left
little things:
buttons, a thimble, bread crust, rust pennies
in the scare-crow's pocket,
the keeper wordless
of the un-bound earth.
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