On Deserted Farms

by Austin McCarron

On deserted farms
I find the wood on
which stars leap and
wild animals roam.
In darkness I shave
my head and the wind
sleeps and the leaves sing.
In green bush the fire
of my inner being roars.
I lie down to see and the
wolves shine in blindness
at my burning secrets.
Strangely, I drink the
worms in a scalding cup.
The night sky is like skin
of bruises, black as manes.
The morning sun wakes me
with strong and vivid mouth.
I starve my glutinous heart
with crusts of light and my
tongue sips at the blue faces
in the dancing wine.
First the blood on the branches
flows in silent waves and I smell
the suffering of pine, riddled with
spit of swollen glans.
Then the sea rises and covers me
with drunken fists, eternal kisses,
leaving me exposed to history,
the archaeologist of my own ruins.