Great Plane

Wheat stocks, fingers with feathers 

Yellow roots in breath—wind

Above,

A home

A trail

A grove of 

Sitting upon the edge of the world, 

Sliced by cloudy blue.

A garden, with wires 

Prodding out of my resting place.

The shack across the field—

Crows are excrement from molded wood vacancies,

The cold’s home.

I look up,

Black hair flying behind my contorted face.

Squinted eyes 

Breath out, come breathlessness.

Black shoes tap blacker earth 

And white socks painted by its sister (green).

Pink dress, breezy 

Split by skinny leather 

And buckled to the ground. 

Skeletal arms claw forward,

Hoping and trying,

But dying by the second.

I look up.