The Field, and its Contents Dylan Karlsson
We sprung into the Honda Accord / blue, rusted, carnivorous vehicle. It tailed us through to the Antelope Valley / moored into view the hills we understood to house / the poppies / on reserve, on this earthen shelf / of earthen wear. The valley filled with January water, when like the bubble burst / end drought and our sprinklers sprout up / again. Drought end and the colander is plugged / with the muck we make. Responsible, we’d like to credit this orange hue to our benevolence, be responsible, don’t step on the flower yet to be windswept / an aside / a component of growth, to be worn dry, down to a piece of reportage / a propagule, considered to be fact / we let that germinate in our heads for just a sec. I sit on a plot already dead. We’ll set up a picnic / zip up our jackets to guard off a buffeting. My fingernails / are growing the width of a page. : breath like foam of days enclosured in field and line it grows in our lungs
47