End of Field

Barry Blackhawk
©1999 Barry Blackhawk

                                   That same lonesome pulls 
                                        my chest outward
                                             and gains weight and pain. 
                                   Feel my feet itching some
                                        familiar way.
                                   It seems duty to break
                                        a crusty clod of gumbo 
                                   And see that small trickle 
                                        creek going by quiet.
                                   A maple tree and brethren flank
                                        the old place, heaves and bumps and 
                                             busted down limbs, must of age
                                             lurks secrets and whispers of brown, grey
                                             black and murmur.
                                   Recall of arm gesture, lip pointing
                                        and finger talk chatter, people talk
                                             sage talk, corn talk, laugh with all 
                                             wrinkles and black point seers,
                                   Threading and sewing and spitting old Juice 
                                        of Holy weed.
                                   House shadow of think past looms
                                        at the heart of the end of this field, 
                                   A huge urge to teeter feebly at a corner
                                        face up to the same star and weep.



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