The crows

have removed
my eyes.

I mean
one leaped

with my eye
out the socket

and stuck its
crud-feet

into the
crescent moon.

I am careening
in lunar agar,

spiraling

in rows
of corn,

in dark globules
of granite.

I am
creeped-out,

in ocular
beneath

the cold, static
tentacles of night.

*

The leaves
begin to fall,

and peeking
from the gravel:

A child says to
mom,

"what are these strange berries?"