--- H E R M A N   B E A V E R S

I can't stop thinking about corn,  
tall and defiant as a woman, 
hands on her hips, waiting 
for the old man to come
home and do damage. 
There are grey clouds with lightning
but no rain, no thunder.    
This is a day I could love.  
It's so hot, sin sits closer 
to the ground than prayer.   
The crowd at the baseball field
waits for the game to be called.  

I'm looking for the last one out.
The station master ambles under the clock, 
carrying a trumpet so shiny 
it could send light bounding off into space.   
His name is William, but he goes 
by Gushion. His helmet of grey hair 
so fierce it's like he's Aonie 
the Sky God musing on rain.

A single note 
hangs loud and sweet 
on the air till the heat closes 
around it, leaving the sound of souls 
caught up in a soft rustle of forgetting,   
bodies leaving 
what they need behind.

If I wasn't catching this train,  
I'd be picking corn hulls out of my nails,  
heading to the back door 
of the farmhouse to see Almajean 
before her husband gets home. She'd 
stare at me for five seconds, say, 
Get on in here, like she was 
losing time and had a good 
mind to go over every inch 
of my body till she found it.  
 
Maybe that explains why 
I've come to hate the sunlight. 
the sight of a cornstalk stripped 
to nothing, shrugging its green 
husk to the ground, like a
dress off of a woman with 
better things to do.  
Standing here on the platform,
I'm looking down
the tracks, warm beer 

in my hand; I can see
a strand of lightning
lashing heaven to the ground.