The Narcissism of Barns

I too have known myself in barns,
helped tobacco leaves to order
with the moistenings of my palms,
shaken seedheads from my trouser cuffs,
heaved the fine June hay, and
stacked alfalfa high as rafters go.
But I have done the other thing:
Gone to summer's balmy fields
to tomahawk tobacco stalks and split those stalks with spears,
driven hickory sticks, hoisted golden burley toward a silver sky,
summed-up August in the call of sweat and fire,
and loved there the flexing of my own arms.
I too have joyed in the narcissism of barns.

A Oneness Won in August

A oneness won in August
scent of Heaven in the air,
of beauty, pure and pinnacling
and a hundred kisses, soft as dawn
through a north window.
At noon we finally parted
with one deep kiss, strong as iron.
You walked around the corner, vanishing, gone.

A Numbness in September

A numbness in September
arrives with early autumn fire.
The elm trees are burned around their edges --
as your body burned in a fiery crash.

Catastrophe dashes August hopes of oneness.
They consume me with the bitter chill of winter,
Hell's certain ice.