Poetry

In The Field Of Green In the field of green, like soft hair, waves. I gaze west to the farm. Red roof, clay tiles with new wet sheen. Birds cry, plants form and insects teem. East is black, as the floor falls away to pit, glass blades. Waste. Cracked hell. The sky a sick grey rain cloud paste. The field of green. The farm cries death. Gold seen behind is lost in breadth. Soft hairs, like grass caress these feet. My hands are crows. My flesh is wheat.