The Field Speaks of its Persistence
I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
—Wallace Stevens
you drive through me your windows open radio on
the horses along the fence watch you
and the grasslands east and west
early morning light’s playing with matter
electrons bound off the metal hood of the car atoms
entangle superconduct flux the order of the day
on the ridge a poplar strips its branches down to
the velvet of antlers its trunk a pivot black hinge
black bird that swims out of itself and back in so close
to your windshield you’re forced to slow down tune-out
your radio pull-over shaking lean
on a fence post where the horses’ great heads hang deep
in thought memories of leather traces eased furrowed fields
salt-licks as a mare looks up meets your eye
it lasts just a second
that glimpse of how light slows
the mare’s memories quickening now through your brain
all of your feet heavy as stone
having passed through walls skin your elation
will turn to confusion how you’ll know when
it happens again but for now
it’s bliss all along
you’ve belonged here
across the fence the car idles
its radio kicking in
and out
The Field Speaks of its Persistence originally appeared in Radio, Film, and Fiction. Spec. issue of Canadian Literature 225 (Summer 2015): 64-65, and subsequently on their website. The poem is now included in my book, Every Shameless Ray, (Innana Publications, 2018).