Doing That Thing to the Field; There Came a Point in the Brutal Winter; Aubade with Bird; A Translation of Frogs
Doing That Thing to the Field
Fog lies down on a field though it’s
not the field sleeping. Maggot and leaf worm
fury all night. Early light
is a dust-up of light. And the fog,
to insist like that
isn’t cloud, isn’t heaven come to earth no matter
what it looks like.
Last, before bed, news on every channel
of news: the air show,
one clip, the crash
no sound at all. In human hands, the camera
skews it, the pilot old too.
And from a picture book of anything that flies,
how a child might draw a plane,
tiny black business behind each reporter’s
big talk talk—across, flaming down
a blunt right angle those
stations kept, keep playing
into dream’s little smoke.
Then the grandstand part,
the expensive box seats.
The fog, doing that thing to the field.
How could I know it was
out here. Already in afterlife when I thought
of coming out here.