• he walks into the warmest, darkest center of the field.
    the field is carpeted with waving musk beneath the sky,
    a sky which seems to gape where in the past it was kept sealed,

    sealed tight; stitched through with songs he heard too much in times gone by.
    times where everything was smooth austerity. he pants
    for motion, scalding motion in this icebox of a sky.

    now soundlessly he begs that sky to jostle in a dance,
    he raises both his little hands above that fragrant field,
    the only one who still is true among those sycophants.