Maybe if I route my broken life through this glowing field.

I guess this jug of bleach jammed in a stone wall.

I guess this disused road will do.

And these incongruous grasses, this busted patchwork

            the light laps up.

The world has a way of turning into everything,

            of always swimming around everywhere.

Like with this felled wall running the unused road

            and in the field the dormant echo of an animal.

I’m humming a song I don’t remember

            and holding a flare out.

The field is spilling light like it’s a broken thing.

I guess this hunter’s moon (or whichever).

I guess this glare is enough,

            could even be a kind of money,

and that the noise the dumb animal in the middle of the field makes

            is coming from me.