I stood there much like the stalks and
grain, my feet planted, my hands on
the tin holding it full of the
evidence of this year's crop.
To your vision, I'm sculptured;
my head turned away, I look
over my left shoulder, seized
by whatever has caught me
by surprise. My eyes, which you
can't see, focus on the vast
heavens, grays and whites and storm-
markers revolving, rushing
for me and our world. You're drawn
in behind my hidden eyes and
we brace ourselves for what comes
from beyond the backing, the wall,
the canvas. Something black, a huge
sphere faster than any line-storm
and no further distant than two
rows of corn, a meteor
to which my mind surrenders,
while you're convulsed in horror.
Still, you stay, expecting the
ball to strike and crush us there.
But the wind rushes on us,
the black gust that would break us;
hot blasts explode toward my
face, the furnace singes then
burns my field but brushes by
moving us past Armageddon
to our incomprehensible
prize. Even now I can embrace
the nuclear night.