AT HARVEST
Tireless sun, crisp air wrestle,
Play for dominance
Cool faces, warm arched backs
Harvest nears
Lusty greens dim, pale
Tribe murmurs,
Pulses with angry ancient need
The gods,
Fierce as they are just
Demand it
Sundown
Torch flames flicker in wide eyes
Children peek from behind
Naked calves
Ancient words summon spirit, stir easy wind
Shadows stretched in twilight
Village idiot ascends
Lonesome steps to temple-top
Assumes position
Balanced precariously
Between black earth and electric sky
Should he fall before sunrise,
His shattered head, broken body
Will appease the gods
And his blood will season the harvest
Should he survive the night,
He will be exalted, and crowned king
The reigning king led to slaughter
There must be blood
Yes, there must be blood
The gods,
Fierce as they are just
Demand it
But the sun, the tireless sun
Who churns even now
Is every bit as steadfast in his hiding
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