the field out there is that expanse hazed in glary tired light
the field gone to yellow at the endings
birds are out in it and too much with us the passing of our train indistinct to them
they know in the upwash finding shapes to split the flow fields
the towns have the sense of being paraded the life in them stripped back to glint the turbines turn the head anemotropic hum the skull to juice the mind
the field out there meets the field of the mind at the horizontal
the faked water of the heat the turbines cut
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