after James Wright
Startled by my breath it bolts to the other end of the field. The horizon's brow rasps against a green cloud which seems both desperate and sincere. Into a dead tree a flame of bird drives its burning beak. And somewhere out here I have come to terms with my brother's suicide. I wish the god of this place would put me in its mouth until I dissolve, until the field doesn't end and I am broken open like a shotgun, swabbed clean.
Copyright © 2012 by Matt Rasmussen. Used with permission of the author.