The Wheat Field

The wind parts the wheat silently;

Her clear-earth hair rises slightly Above warm brown shoulders.

A dark thin man stands within.

Arms tense, fingers twitching.

Eyes fixed on wheat-colored hair near the horizon. Pale and shimmering.

Delicate folds of gown trickle over shoulder. Breast, belly, thigh, pebble, creek bed.

The man stretches up his arms.

Hands, fingers, to a ghostly sun.

To feel, to caress.

Slender trees at noon.

In feverish dreams I crashed Through dimensions of existence Far below blistering surfaces Of senseless visions.

Like nodes of broken light Sliding over a spider web Toward the center,

My scattered selves

Raced toward a shrivelled world.