Great Plane
Wheat stocks, fingers with feathers
Yellow roots in breath—wind
Above,
A home
A trail
A grove of
Sitting upon the edge of the world,
Sliced by cloudy blue.
A garden, with wires
Prodding out of my resting place.
The shack across the field—
Crows are excrement from molded wood vacancies,
The cold’s home.
I look up,
Black hair flying behind my contorted face.
Squinted eyes
Breath out, come breathlessness.
Black shoes tap blacker earth
And white socks painted by its sister (green).
Pink dress, breezy
Split by skinny leather
And buckled to the ground.
Skeletal arms claw forward,
Hoping and trying,
But dying by the second.
I look up.