The scarecrow sits on the ricketty porch
gazing out to a rural summer;
legs crossed effeminately
spine limp in a rocking chair.

Hiding behind the hay that built thee, Scarecrow,
is a city of wood awaiting to burn
and spread, to the field where the lights never reached,
to the one place Queens and maidens could run
out of protection for their untouched skin.

Poor immaculate souls,
may hide here no longer! for
light of the sickliest kind
has sprouted here this summer,
and autumn will not show her face.

But to you, Scarecrow,
to you today I plead
to change your figure, change your eyes,
change your torment to match what's coming.
Leave the pilgrims and their almanacs inside to pray,
and retrieve your position on the cross midfield -
the black birds have worried for you.