Huron

I kept myself back from you like a wooden hand
stuck deep into autumn's wet pocket
going home among fields

roads have been dragged here to witness
the sky's execution
of one more grey miracle

trees are weeping
for the grain and the stone houses

a prisoner had hidden himself
beside an uncleared swamp that begins to sing
of lakes and forests inside him

night flares
rampant with signals
(1987)