Scarecrows

A poem by Robert Joe Stout

wired-fence-1207949

Gray cotton pants

twist around the stake—its bones—

as quivering eyes

try to focus on dreams

disappearing through the rotting fence.

I call to it and the trees answer.

The birds fold inward

and words

wither into seasons

as predictable as the crows

—or my leaning against a hoe,

listening.


Robert Joe Stout is the author of two collections of poetry, Monkey Screams (FutureCycle Press) and A Perfect Throw (Aldrich Press), and six chapbooks. He is a freelance journalist in Oaxaca, Mexico.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s