Beaconsfield

last night in bed was dark
and confusing, and i thought i became a cornfield.
i was locked in place by the square shoulders of the midwest,
my pillow gone.

i couldn’t run as a cornfield, only lean,
subjecting myself to the occasional breeze
and when i balled my fists a light began
that spread like crickets to my nose’s tip

and there i stood,
in the undressed hours

until a scarecrow on the alabaster horizon
began to shake his tambourine
and he stumbled across the blues
in the rhythm of our aging in open space

loud enough that farmers sprang from their beds
to put their ears to the dirt
and listen to our rising