In here—I am pointing to my heart—
the wheat stalks press together in the cold. Above me,
the clouds stretch out like water from a glass
tipped over, advancing, now, on an uneven floor.
An owl chooses loneliness in a white oak
and the field I stand on
is cracked as a laborer’s palm
holding me up to his eyes.
If you don’t want this—you,
heart—then the moon does not need to sing for the field
and I can find you an hour the night doesn’t end.
That’s not knowledge. The road’s all turned around in the hills.
My breath inflates another gray skull
and before I can make out a face, it turns
and heads for the trees.