they're cutting down rows of corn at the knees
separating pieces of gold
from outgrown garments
gathering seed and
leaving thin feathered battlefields

my father’s soft eyes resting in a buried oak box
coffined long enough that I've
completely forgotten the sound of his voice
only words remain in quiet corners
like a farmers almanac
fingertipped from the shelf

the sun
just an orange lozenge now
melting inside the hollow mouth of night