The Field

The rhythmic pulse of the field
Filled will one million chirping crickets
Mingles with the heavy numbness
And pleasant fatigue of one too many
Glasses of tequila and lime.
A cacophony of sound and thought
Somehow made to be in a kind of
Perfect harmony.
Stars dance overhead in the clear night sky
And slowed thought drifts lazily to you,
As it always does if given leave.
I never was any good
At lying, or deception.
Try as I might, my thoughts can be read
Clear as the night sky by those
Who posses the right compass;
That which I give, but can never take back.
The heaviness I feel, perhaps not just tequila
Numbing my nerves, but still the regret
Of a past or future –
I’m never sure which –
Dashed to bits by a fate so cruel as
To make God weep.
I close my eyes, watch
The infinite points of light fizzle into nothing
All together. The cool, damp
Grass on my bare feet – a welcome reminder
That though I walk blindly,
I still walk.