The planes had autumn in them
Like a rose,
Shed its thorns in fury
They had in their bellies harvest
Reapers with shaggy trotting horses
To bruise and knuckle corn
Forlorn tanks of ambrosia, white under
The supple blue storm
Sheaves and tow and kindling wood
A lock of blonde hair pushed under a snood
Buckling coats and leather and boots
To knees high
A man walks between two full towers
Where the bees with industry multiply
Amid thickening motes of sour apples,
Pumpkins and melons that dapple
A small Pennsylvania meadow yard.
A spider like a cross
Hangs between the silos,
Below, two little red hands,
Smashed in child grip, the plane
Falls before it can transmogrify,
Like the sport of doves wherever
In dovecotes they linger
A child that sees the world’s bones
In the bones inside his fingers
And a man sprog is born
In an old woman’s labor.
When she cries, it cries
And like music from the
Jawing instrument of the ass
His noisome vapor promises retribution tonight
That God himself will rattle the cities
And gorge himself on the empire of glass
Beauty is Imperfection 