Harvester
A man farms men
A great sickle sword
Harvests bodies bales limbs
Binds one upon the other upon the other
Battle a great threshing
Arms wheeling a combine
And low there the bodies fall
Clanking of armor and bloody leather
Burbling cries and last long moans
Eyes raised and then roll back
Amidst the fleshy division of muscle
The crushing halt into bone
The sucking pull of the wound
Being released by the blade
The grunt the roar the barbarous bawling
That crawls into the belly of men
Chasing out all but one sound
The din dazzles the darkest desires
Smell blood, taste sweat, hunt
Reducing to gristle and grit
Thundering jabber
An arm, a weapon, a fist
To be reaper of men
May 5, 2000
