On the way to the croons hill
where the back roads of asphalt
disappear into a country court
patchwork of mud and glare,
and an apple-crisp sun
that elevates itself to tears
of heavenly landscapes and sea;

a drunken moss of fresh pasture
and the race of rust barbwire fence
that runs and curves along the road
of the car, for miles on end,
encasing the cattle and horses,
that go grazing green dinners
along the smell of death road.

this one particular raven
was following us up in the air,
carrying a dime of smile
across it's face, I think it
knew things of a sort,
like that a day doesn't go on
forever and that darkness
locks in like teeth of a vampire
in a helpless vein blue sky,
and that cars eventually
will empty out of gas and oil.

I think it knew that fear and weary
were a crutch to a human soul,
and the old wives tale of scarecrows
that stand with a steel pole
up its spine and hay-matted clothes,
guarding a crop stretch of corn-
stalking like a madman in the early
dawn of escape from a madhouse.

---

Anthony Liccione lives in Texas, where he raises his two sons on his own. His poems have appeared in several print and online journals, anthologies, and several collections.