When I no longer exist, the field
will still be blossom in spring, all
gorged on green. It is difficult
 
but necessary to be happy about this,
to hope the word blossom will survive.
I was born with the right
 
set of bones for the wrong kind
of yearning. The sky is wide
in a way that hurts me,
 
and I am narrow in a way that hurts
the sky. The field and its grasses gossip
about my feet, the way they move me
 
forward when backwards is the way
I came. And the larks let such perfect
notes free from their intricate throats.
 
I don’t know what they’re singing. I walk
until the field’s just grass, then turn and try
to get a look at a world that’s rid of me.