Sweet corn

I met him in a cornfield
he did not announce or even insinuate
his name or history
yet I knew him already
his smile was a warmth on a bitter banjo morning
his hair was flailing in an invisible wind
the tears were sopping his cheeks
blankets moist in a eye brow scorning
questions you
and I dared to run
amongst the cob and lob the answer
in His face, golden,
disgrace the lord
in my scare crow mind
flight
beyond my sight
the tears in the plowed
corn.