3 - Submarine Hate Poetry: Vane

Vane

When I sit and reason
I find my love belongs to her
And will not be separated.
It is as the immutable rhythm
That slyly sifts through the evening grasses,
And drives coal black cricket chirp.
The accusatory moon in the night:
A doorknob,
So the careless won’t wander
In starry space too long.
A decrepit cast iron weathercock.
Silhouette on gray farmhouse
Squeakily pointing the direction
From which the rust comes.