Farm

Where great yellow sticks
are called hay and dead
weeds, I'm quick to film
the sun with my eyes.

Slowly the moon plots the
clash, and it's always too
slow to the chase.

She tries her hardest to
fight the sun but her skin
just blisters, and pales
with defeat.

Barns are filled to the
windows with pulsing, humid
bodies, making children to
feed their pagan gods.

Where great yellow sticks
are called hay and dead
weeds, the sun films us,
and is our undoing.