A pack of wild pigs escapes through wheat
Cutting a mauve swath into the clouds
Creek banks are blown with thistles
And copperheads pull down into roots

Apocalyptic orange light on a grain silo
Girls smoking cigarettes and shucking corn
In halter dresses with the radio on
Later they will lie on hay bales drinking wine

Old woman that lives the converted stone church
Opens the screen door secretly
She tongs the moon from the well
And hangs it in the cottonwood tree to dry

Here we burn our trash at night and
Our hearts marinate silently in summer's blaze
And if some of the fire jumps out of the barrel
It brings wild fascination before we stomp it

Author's Note: This poem evolved from the title "Flaming Tongues of Wheat," which one of my collaborators, A. di Michele, came up with.