after James Wright

Startled by my breath it bolts
to the other end of the field.

The horizon’s brow rasps
against a green cloud

which seems both
desperate and sincere. 

Into a dead tree
a flame of bird

drives its burning beak.
And somewhere out here

I have come to terms
with my brother’s suicide.

I wish the god of this place
would put me in its mouth

until I dissolve, until
the field doesn’t end

and I am broken open
like a shotgun,

swabbed clean.