On the Playing Fields

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Cold clear days with a kind of white haze
The eternity of thought against
The momentariness of sensation shows
Separation is all there is left to
Enact as the sky of evening closes
On each strained thud of a weary puppet heart
The calm that nature breathes grows large
Colors of an insect’s wing on pale clouds
Serrated and recessive barred
A vapor trail cuts across a star’s reflex
While eastward others now begin to sparkle
And as on the playing fields night conquers
The moon floats up cloaked in misty vagary
The blood aswarm with imagined lights




Sunset: photo by andrew pmk