[K:NWTS 21/3 (Dec 2006) 72-73]


Charles G. Dennison

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.