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In a Field, The Absence of Field

 

or heart—like breathing, you enter
waist-high grasses, the tan

of prairie dog, fern, wild lily, & the wind
takes you up into itself, your body curves

& sways with the grasses, canvas, Magritte
of the field & passing. How you ended up here,

you are unsure, but you arrived wearing nothing
but air, & that impermanence tempts you

with its long hands. At times you think you live
such a dismal life—ready to chalk up somewhere

concrete-side, in Hopper or
Van Gogh, the flash & burn of a red-based

Pollack. How lovely: the heart on distillery
& body black-fashioned, if only for the sake

of being discovered by another: the compass
of the body, arms pointing North & South,

nose pointing to Rhode Island & the coast.
That is why you constantly busy yourself; that

is your confession. You keep moving
to keep things whole. Little breath-strokes

from the world holistic on your skin. Little black box
of wonder in your hand, or you would like it

to be. The choice to make mistakes
& sleep.

 

 

Published inBlogging & PoemsMy Poems

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