WEBVTT

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"Hangman."

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This was written in '69.

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This poem, and one
called "The Root Eater"

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were sort of the beginning
of my stronger work in July

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'69, my season in hell.

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"Hangman."

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In the fields, the
silos open their mouths,

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and let the grain
dribble down their sides,

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for they are overflowing.

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The farmers swing their
scythes, brows dripping blood.

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They have had the passion
ripped out of their chests,

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and share no
brotherhood with the wheat.

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While far across the
open land, the Hangman

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mounts an empty scaffold.

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He slides his hands over
the coarse-grained cedar,

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and smells the whole
Lebanese coast

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in the upraised arms of Kansas.

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The rope's stiff bristles
prick his fingers

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as he holds it, and lifts
himself above the trap door.

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He touches the wood again.

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This will be his last hanging.

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And anyway, he has seen other
fields, workmen nailing brass

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spikes into the scaffolds, and
rope which coiled and uncoiled

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in the laps of farm women.

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He places his foot on
the step going down,

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and nearby a scarecrow explodes,
sending tiny slivers of straw

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into his eyes.

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