Field


The day's heat runs
white fences slung
along the rise,
a distant warp. I ripple
with that mirage.

The curve of your back
is like this tough cropland.

I run against you,
a ribbon of fresh plowed soil,
but those waves of barbwire
and picket drench me.

Saltpeter in this breeze,
a copper tang to my spit.

I flop, a great cicada,
wings sticky
and thin as leaves.

1981 John Goss