Sax Solos In Wheat Fields Poem by Michael Brosky

Dark bird of penance, wheat field significance
The beast tracker must promulgate the resolve
The hunt and harvest must play out and evolve
Past mind jam, somewhere in this total expanse

No time for thrills or chance, push before the wave
Ceiling ruptures, the source of the force and drain
The motions assemble these players of pain
Sucking, suffering mounds of clay by the grave

Wheat fields, but it is the ravens that color
Each star a reaching claw to test our sleep
No time to bargain, no souls to hope to keep
All stolen by wind and beak, the globe smuggler

So many hidden hours behind the dust
From this dropping life, just grain by random grain
Whirl pareidolia, shadows on the rain
Days spidering outward as tattoos of rust

Fractal paths past the mass of caryopsis
I will not seek the bird shadows they're casting
Maybe the prophet's disciples are fasting
Eternity in eye floaters drift amiss

Atoms? Or nits? I will not seek the small bits
And which end of the telescope are we at?
Sax solos of jazz in a wheat field of math
No eternity, that dark bird, never fits