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

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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).