She who walked between the rows

Naked lie the corn in the field,

Shucked, barren, picked by crows.

A yield great from the harvest

Scattered and forgotten between the rows.

Still, corn cannot judge paths of blood

or fathom wrath unbound.

It dips and turns and disintegrates

and dusts shock toward the ground.

There, strewn clothes and eyes unweep--

Seed droppings bear grain sowed.

Sharp breezes scour the life reaped

that withers between the rows.

Sun-touched hands stretch wretched,

rigid, and youth bound.

Dried husks grasped by a brown thrush

are eviscerated between the rows.

Misty breath conceals the one

to raise white's quivering sheet.

Until remains the mornings and dusks

and earth beneath still feet.