Playing Dead in the Field
Hay season and the men lean
against the split-rail fence.
Even the oiled tongues of their boots
speak Finnish. The evening ridge
is a blue crown of deep hours.
For now, I belong to the quick mice,
and the wind is a smoky mirror
lowered onto the field.
A snake noses the low star
through the grass. In the sky,
five ticks filled with my blood
pulse between a man and his burden.
The Morning Crumbles Like Shale
and yesterday’s thorn of starlight
is still caught in my mother’s hair.