Horses before the barn burned down.
Expired lights at night.
A pile of books in the clearing.
Bodies the next day.
I’m on my hands and knees
Again in the scalp
Of the wheat, looking for a fold
In the fields.
The scent of heavenly spheres
On the back of the wind-borne blight.
This living hides the seam of an inward
Where buildings don’t collapse.
The people there
Rising from their desks
Confetti out of windows,
Waving and smiling down at us.