Scarecrow. Robert Fernandez

      scarecrow

      Bring your servants close.

      Nesting is not a time.

      There is no damage here.

      The brain is fine. The leaves,

      fine. The wine is as black as ever

      —

      There is a pace

      and it slows

      and it sees

      and it

      lows

      —

      One slickens up to you, all

      oil, to assure you of your substance.

      This is all all all. Make a note

      of it. Herein lies a balance

      for yellow birds with black heads

      and black moths with yellow heads

      and all detritus of coming near

      the realm of the dead—namely,

      yellow and black leaves softened parting

      —

      So I am a pairing—I know my rules:

      let sheep eat sheep and lions, lions.

      Let Latins meet Greeks under patch-

      work quilts. Let the vision plaid

      for a bit

      —

      I bit

      and the grapefruit had a bit

      of death’s black and from my tear ducts

      came grapefruit seeds, black

      as hor-

      nets. Pity

      them Lord for they know not

      what they do. Pity the lions and the locusts

      —

      Pity the animals—the day is a raze,

      heat and wheat gathered into airy combines

      of thrashing. The noise spins lions

      in the air. My fair one falls

      down to me on black ropes. No

      one can see me, and hope is a thing

      for birds and fools. I drool

      on locust bouquets and steps

      of honey. Come

      —

      Meet your master

      in the dust; with his

      one tooth, he drains

      you dry. May you spin

      here, scarecrow, among

      the other straw-like things

      planted in the dark earth,

      swollen with light and time