The Field
by Lindsay Turner

Afternoon: the intersection of planes.
Slant of light against the shadows wedged like
dark hatchets in the edges of the woods;
rippled back of blade-ridged field
against the moist and lowering air;
grass-flecked green air still against the gulp
and chasm of the gathering hills.
Like being underwater,
it is a suspension. It is like
memory and
what comes next? It is like memory and
if you pull too hard it will contract
like a muscle, draw and thicken
till the sinews
and the tendons
tear, and the void that sweeps the pieces
to the side is dark and quiet. Fluid
ringing insect drone and one
cicada rattle caught
by stillness and suspended
with the flecks of grass
and amber-dust
in air. Without the smell of grass
it is an empty space
before the hills.