Incident at Cornfields
He caught the conch shell
blazing in the sun and with
his two-year old daughter he
gathered about the whitetail
deer and carried it streaming
from his shoulders and boned
through the brush. He dreamed
of peyote, not knowing which way
the putrid stone would throw him
in his gut. About him lay dry
sticks. He suspected where shells
came from and the oval-shaped beads.
They were not all stolen from the
place he thought. Rather, he caught
one of them canterng by the sea just
like the whitetail deer. He stretched
its blood over the stone to drape its
wound facedown in the sun, but the rain
fell and drained its image. He touched
the volcanic stone at the entrance of
his house but that too fell into a million
images. He dreamed of a fox in winter
blue when it issues from the rock each
black down of it. At noon, with its string of
coral beads it pads about his neck.
It breathes heavily of the air.
People look each day for its head to
become a watermelon they can
eat but he has them fooled as yet.
The corn separates itself into heads
when the white blossoms call
forth to the north god.