Bounding Wet Dark
and the fields are wet too,
the grass, the questions
we press together to answer.
You are the last candle from the barn
I blow out. Sunday wish,
we are alive
only a short time. What is the purpose
of a field if not to lie in it?—
So we make the field
a field, myself
nothing more. Grasshoppers leaping
out of sight, I already know
what won’t happen. The night
pales at the pine scrim. We lie
beneath rotting stars.
“Bounding Wet Dark” is from Novena (Pleiades Press, 2017).