The Suggestion of a Standing Being

Upon which inferences seesaw from spectre to score,
Some shade, inert, extending recumbently from the fore
On the track ahead of me, rises, stands as revenant,
Lies as gouge made by a tractor's wheel in the sediment,
Again seems upright, then once more flat on the plane, to roil—
Hard to tell, till this hatch false-flipping on perception's coil
Moves off! It steals, as I run towards it, into the wood's
Yardley clearing, where lurk more anamorphic shapes in hoods
Of iridescent, black oil. A trumpet sound fills the sky,
Leaves fall at once. They call to me, "What is it you want?" "I
Am just looking around," I dissemble. Once more, they call,
And I cower down low, for a hatch’s stature is tall,
Is tall, or flat and angled away—it is hard to tell.
You will reassure yourself, but it is hard to dispel
The suggestion of a standing being, who holds, ahead
On the track, in between the lobes of its morbid wall bed,
Those who give chase.