Being without boundary, the perfect day
That I cannot hold, that I want to hold

Is a field and we who do not yet live

In such a calm place run around selling
Phantoms of the dangerously obsessed

Like the notion of stars, being far-fetched.

Even a more earthly concept, the field
In our misguided hands gets a value

Such as one dollar more will give you this

Power to conceive such a place beyond
Smokestacks, city coroner, unfixed road

Beauty salon of face masks or Bok Choy

Bagged at the door on a simple metal table
With rows of meat in the background

People lining up but not for the deal

They want to touch those vegetables
The way you, filmmaker, want to touch film

Or you, runner, want the road to crackle

And push up into the ball of your foot
Be muddy as you fall down and slippery

As you are flung up by the momentum

Of the hill, open as you touch the knoll
On Dayquil, just about now kicking in.