← v20n2, Fall 2021
Poetry · 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.