← v20n2, Fall 2021Poetry · Volume 20, Number 2
Field
Butchers are cold.
People with hoods are cold.
The clothed and the brittle are cold,
black and white.
We’re alone.
We have mouths plump as
grasshoppers and
they beam.
Ash shakes.
A Frenchman breaks in with a mechanical
key and eats
strawberries.
Chess is pressure.
I’m as light as a curtain of foam.
