Truth's crop

I roll up a boulder

to make a high window

to see the flat plains.

A sparrow who wonders

what I’m doing there

gives me a lash of pity.

I see the symbols flash

blading truth’s crop

into a lake of red.

The snow falls in sheaves

to hide the human whet

for harvest blood.

The earth stops stockstill
held in thrall
by deathly horror.