Autumn Moon

The cracking skin of the desert-dweller's hand,
himself a deserted tract of strange and unfamiliar land,
has come to cut the stalks of the sacred grain

The sickle, sharp and eager for the shearing,
caring not to mow down the wildflowers,
mows them nonetheless.

Take my silver-eyed necessity and
blast the walls of the straw castle down, though the stones may
shatter me and
kill the holy cattle, it is
time for the

Erich Campbell

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