This is an unusual time -
One of demands, of activity
Of questions with no
Answers, of integrity and
Its lack.

I look back mostly
But try and keep my
Eyes right, averted from
The fright of a macabre
Past tense.

I have lost my sense of
What is, of what I am that is
More than the sum 
Of my parts.  My heart is
Suspended in a state
Of animation and a fallow
Soul reposes in fragility, uneasily

Anticipates the cold incision
Of the plough's blade to splay
The slow ochre and lay all
Bare to bring a pale stubble
For burning in autumn's
Deft black scars.  

Here there is 
Dearth of yield and much
Yelling as my hay is
Harvested and palletted and
Carted-off to unknown ends.

What remains of the me that is
Me after all this self-cultivation, this
Wicker-man erection, this
Cult of personality and stars, these
Free choices.

Where does one find
The one true voice, the lightest
Furrow in which to climb.  Where
Has all the sunlight gone.  Why
Am I born of flames.  When
Will I be grown and how
Does one become immune.
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