Beauty is Imperfection

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

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