SCARECROW
Love loves the time when the road ends.
When the immaculate fever
comes down, loving the distance,
and the luminous wheat in high wind
and the apples.
A man is not a scarecrow, he
breathes and beats at the wind
with a pair of hands.
Throw an apple at him, he takes it, he bites it.
He knows a thing or two
about the country where you live,
country of weather,
country of bitten fruit.
He abides with crows
and the harvest, the restless
rifling of acres, evanescent green.
The horizon ignites
where you live. Your skirt
full of apples
and dirty. It will not
end well.
Karen Volkman, from Crash’s Law
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