Feild
December 18, 2020
The field is a green lake
feverishly decorated in dew
and he sits all consumed
in the fog swimming by
A crow sits on its post
he feels its surveillance
it doesn’t matter when they spy
the cloud cover doesn’t jury on Tuesdays
Why has he seen this morning before
with someone else
it makes him feel pain
overwhelmed by the fragile mist, it sensitively weeps
the corridor on the far end is hidden
and he sinks in its abyss