We reap what we sow

the harvest moon is round fat
and slimy yellow squeezing
through night's tough black bars

its fever does not penetrate
the dark space of the sky 
it hisses rather squelches
to its rise
besmirches peace and health
with sickness and with
watchful baleful eyes

a putrid fruit 
of Autumn slops
drips above wet leaves and
flapping trees dismal
feet beneath a steady rain run by

denying all the world's pain 
contained in that foul form
sagging it blows a silent
noisome breath
a yellow exhalation

the bars cannot hold 
the weight of creeping
in that heaving mass 
the tough bars cannot hold it in 
the vomiting

its bulk a full-flushed
mustard waxing fat and
this soft night's darkness

there is nothing clean nothing
only damaged light 
all the dimmed and tarnished light
there has ever been
is festering is sick and seen
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem