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He was impressed by a man in a suit who showed up every day brandishing sheaves of paper, and who seemed to be in charge.

At his farm just outside Tunis, Hasan Chetoui stood clutching dry sheaves of wheat, the ears empty husks, after managing to save only 20 hectares of the 150 he planted.

In an excerpt of the poem ‘the red sheaves’ from his forthcoming collection, ‘perennial fashion presence falling,’ the multihyphenate artist gives a sneak peek of an infinitely rich and more unruly freedom jam.

One depicted golden sheaves of wheat, another quarried gray ore, another the tufted wool of sheep.

What follows is simply a sampler, a few sheaves from this fall’s rich and strange abundance.