The yellow leaves shine
flat in the rain under the streetlamps,
and I can think of no reason
to distrust my feeling of them—
crisp, hay-full air opens me,
nearby the prairie grass drinks
tomorrow raw streaks of blond, red and yellow
softened through the black boughs
by an orange sun-hushing sunset;
the isolate garden of prairie
tumbles and dust clouds buzz
among the brown-eyed stalks
of novemberflowers; fish in milliseconds
leap in Buffalo Creek
rippling a wind song to the shore
spread from tree to tree fallen
or standing on blue-vined bush of red berry
whose violet blood feed these deer
in the wood clear to collect
and sniff in the perfumed hum—
Thanksgiving! set the feast
for the flowers are starving
and will burn ferociously,
the roses will bleed in the grey
embers of dawn, the twilight
will catch the glint of my eyes
luminescent, picking their anger,
quelling the blues, pinks, tulips, autumn lilies
and pansy tears; I will stand
in the ashes of the corn grove
cold and black and plow
my heart in the pumpkin patch
caught in the gnarled cord
pulling through prairie thorns…
night rises sooner and closer
and freezes the air deliciously,
the rain is tears for a deep sleep
black in the earth loam to sand
to red clay, rock and magnet center,
where the ghost of adventure burrows,
and sweeps the warm, panty bodies
fortified and invisible on the insect hill
where falls the black cloud of rushing buffalo sea….