To hear sounds in a thunderstorm
and the pure sweat of rain
in my heart
I must be drunk in the white lightning
of madness: there is wild maize
bending on this old wooden bar, wind mounting
as if there is a bird of lust
that knows,
like the old wild turkey—blood running from its wing
and crouching in this field of autumn brown stubble—
that hunters are usually inaccurate amateurs
and the end is final.