Jacques Rancourt

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).