for Jennifer Denrow
I’m there in the field, I’m letters. The dying I imagined would be gold here. What nightlight thinking. Like that time with the stars, like everything, watermelon: hold what was lost and what is gives room. I bless it and help.
Yes you certainly are in this box, this field. Lantern some peace or something. A purpose. Blank features. We insist much of parents, raining down lives and cherries, galaxies. But everyone has had galaxies and housed enough already. Like hers aren’t falling and like you don’t sleep in study position. You can possess fields now, just think one. If you hold any weight you can make a rock.
Some fields still smell of fields. Some people have no rush left and in this way you kept us waiting. We each keep to our own field as a goodbye, closed and worried. These are witch categories, but a dear mystery. How sweet it all is, and has been, since earth eggs.
Finally the schedule rots, but none of the places go away. The whole is not other than these. It’s like back when everyone worked in fields. When everyone slept in fields. In the fields I sipped wild and worked hard, a perfume thing: diminished but not gone.