Fieldwork

The cut worm forgives the plow.
Drive your cart over the bones of the dead.
William Blake


In the time of your
harvest: Your
plow. Their fields,
their bones. Your
cart, your
seeds. Their forgiveness.

Now fallow fields, cut
worms hallowed
in celebration and hunger.

Build your
cities, turn forward
drive over and on
into the night. The dead
will understand.