Crows in Wheatfield
hazardous
like a desert gilled
with fire--and peppered onyx
in a lush frenzy
of saffron--a brew scythes could cull
if they writhed
like snakes--a landscape
strummed by fever,
replete with vague lyres.
all you hear
is anxiety
vaporing off the canvas--a dirge that could,
after decades,
saw off your lobe.the scene
wavers like a stung pond,
fueling a hint
of racked petals--the facade peace becomes
when inveterate paintrembles.
copyright 2007 Chris Crittenden
bio
Barnwood magazine
Contents 07