These days I’m a scarecrow

hay for blood and sinew,
jointless, sweating through
my Levi’s and my father’s flannel
shirt—holey, plaid, indispensable.
It has lost his Old Spice scent
and is too heavy for the heat
of these days. Cyclones of ash
and the stink of slag fan out
every which way, everything drab
and dry as Ezekiel’s bones
and no faith in resurrection. I flop
limply in the hamsin—imported
from the Levantine motherland
of plagues and crystal ball
doomsaying—scaring no thing,
myself afraid of fire, unsure
how to pack for this furnace we
golems stoked. I remain posted
like a spent angel, rooted
and mute—exposed
to elements with no mercy,
pointing skyward
with one arm, heartward
with the other—lips
stitched into a black line
of three dots, three dashes,
three dots, with no one left
to read them. I hang here
guarding a dust bowl of dead
things, barren and birdless.