I: Out of Darkness


Out of darkness they keep moving,

Slowly, over the fields, bodies bent low

For scraps as fall iterates itself into frost,

Winter-white tufts of ice-patched sawgrass,

Sage spikes, while women huddle in caves,

Threshing-room floors, pounding stones,

Grinding, bleaching, sweet white corn, squash,

Feeding flocks from ghost-blue springs

Of summer stillness, from nothing not there,

Nothing that is.



GTimothy Gordon

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