Poem: Wheatfield Under Clouds

 

Wheatfield Under Clouds

 

we glanced at the lapis of

the lazuli while the clouds basked

plump and idle above the swerving

walls of our flaxen chains.

 

not even the precious blue

could outframe so much hubris,

those polyamorous medusae as they floated lazy,

seductive and narcotic above our sweat.

 

they coaxed our feverish moods.

made love to us like ghosts,

admiring the flex of our torsos

while we coiled and swept,

only to soon lose touch.

 

day after day, parade after parade of

simulated worship rose above our scythes.

those menagerie-esque choirs, so innocent,

swilled to swell and storm until

sooner or later we were forced to shoulder

the heave.

 

how careless they were after the climax,

drifting to nestle

into the honey-orange-cherry heaven

of distant sundown.

 

we labored still at night

to dwell and dream of those hedonistic floats.

we played to their seraphim,

prettified the nightmare

 

when

 

in the foreshadows before dawn,

our flesh wore the same shadowy curves

as their mathless checkerboard.

 

always came noon,

atop those lotus horses, which somehow

rode far above the saddle of our pliant rut.

and the drug of our dismal rapture, once more,

offered hard-bitten pectoral breaths

to the galloping frenzy

of their wind-torn, joyless stride.

 

 

 

 

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