Distributive Shock, Port Loko Province

Just as the sun fell exhausted
behind the field
blackened
by    slash  
and    burn
creeds
put in place
when local really meant local,
I began to run.

A pregnant African mutt
came out the charred field,
pendulous,
ascetic,
ran in front of me for a dozen yards,
then dashed off into the unburned
tall savannah grass
above which appeared the moon,
clouded like the sclera
of a smoker smoking
and gazing out of the morning tavern window,
small like they always are,
to keep yourself from peering in
and finding you there.

We evade oursleves in a million nifty ways
as our joints rust,
our minds scar and dement,
until once irretrievable, we start to let go
and what we always thought we would become
is almost visible in the unharvested corn stalk
torso,
all that remains in the ashen field
into which we forgot what we were supposed to sow.