Where the sun burns
There's a field
Vast and endless
It touches the mind
Influences thoughts
By nature of its imperceivable edges
It exposes the sky's simple void
Without shame
There
The sun is always overhead
The sky always a perfect cerulean
And though the clouds crawl overhead
As blown by a lazy breeze
The same clouds that roll
Over the northern curvature of the land
Are those which appear from the south
At their journey's end
Rolls of golden wheat cover the dirt
Just tall enough to kiss a knee
Someone lays in the field
Arms spread out to the sides
Palms open to the sky
Eyes stare blankly upward
Irises bleached by the sun
Skin drapes loosely over bones
And the flesh of the legs is lighter
On the side facing the earth
The surface of their scalp ripples
And splits
From it is birthed a single larva
Its pale and sensitive skin glistens
With a youthful moisture
In the midday, everyday light
It squirms and drops in the dust
Landing in the shadow of a crow
Swiftly descending
The helpless larva disappears into its beak
The crow departs to the west
The first and last cloud rolls from north to south
A blade of wheat dips from the weight of its seeded head
It brushes the brow of the body
Sealed and pregnant once more
The crow enters from the east
And the sun continues to burn
