"Hangman."
This was written in '69.
This poem, and one called "The Root Eater"
were sort of the beginning of my stronger work in July
'69, my season in hell.
"Hangman."
In the fields, the silos open their mouths,
and let the grain dribble down their sides,
for they are overflowing.
The farmers swing their scythes, brows dripping blood.
They have had the passion ripped out of their chests,
and share no brotherhood with the wheat.
While far across the open land, the Hangman
mounts an empty scaffold.
He slides his hands over the coarse-grained cedar,
and smells the whole Lebanese coast
in the upraised arms of Kansas.
The rope's stiff bristles prick his fingers
as he holds it, and lifts himself above the trap door.
He touches the wood again.
This will be his last hanging.
And anyway, he has seen other fields, workmen nailing brass
spikes into the scaffolds, and rope which coiled and uncoiled
in the laps of farm women.
He places his foot on the step going down,
and nearby a scarecrow explodes, sending tiny slivers of straw
into his eyes.