||The Quaker Meeting House
Round-bales after dusk become
black rocks or bent men,
spines arced from carrying
a burden as terrible as God.
Barbed wire, strung between
locust posts sloughing their bark,
keeps things in, herding any
that move toward the possessive structure;
the slow pull of a drawstring gathering
the pouch neck. When the sky silvers,
the cross against the disc moon becomes
sighting hairs, but there is no gunpowder crack
as an animal skulks down the steps,
lit eyes considering: a setting out.