in August

I should’ve lain down
in the fields, in August
pulled into the turn-off
and left the car, idle
in the bare dirt,
I should’ve stepped into
the weeds
and followed the faint
trail, through the
wildflowers,
crossed the grass
to the dark hedge of trees
at the edge of the field
I should’ve fallen down
under the heat and the haze
I should’ve let the sweet scent
of dusk lull me down
back to the dirt, let the shadow
of the grass fall across my face
and sunk with it, down
into blue,

on the other side of morning
somewhere in Kansas
with the I-70 thundering
toward the hills, into Missouri

I should’ve woken
with dirt in my eyes
and burrowed my shoulders into the earth
to avoid the sun blowing across the plains
and listened to the receding echo
of something throwing itself, head-long
through the night

God bless

God bless
the devil-in-the-design
              through all the lonely ages
the liars
              deceivers, misleaders--prideful and spiteful
boastful--the blind
              God bless
the stumblers--the bumblers--the fumblers
the shamblers--the ramblers
              shuddering, milling in the night
              approaching, encroaching--with groping hands
where that old star hangs low and bright
              groping and grasping--they gasp as they're passing
              crowding the roads down into
Old David's City--such pieces, the sons of man
of the work--who will speak but not understand
              when the angels sing--to crack the night
God bless the fearful--and aid their flight
              streaming past houses--quick in the alleys
to the rooms they've reserved--some broke for the valleys
                  and left the torches and the walls, altogether.
              it starts there. with the sheep grazing idle in the heather
and echoes, out--all along the gutters
              into the corners--near and far
praise the shadow with running footsteps
God bless the darkness--mind the star.