friend poem

in and of itself
beside a stricken field
the poets tell
a flying word from here and there
as i lie roofed in, screened in
to come so soon to this imagined dark
darkest, strangest mystery
for these white arms about my neck
brother, i am fire
rocked in the cradle of the deep
it was the autumn of the year
do i like it
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room