I used to walk alone at night
up the gravel roads
past the ponies
(though you didn’t see the ponies-
they were undoubtedly sleeping, in the barn,
but that’s where they lived none-the-less,
on old man Thorman’s land,)
with the pollen from the corn field
floating sleepy in the night air-
air still warm
from the radiation of a july sun,
a sweaty hug from the troposphere,
a blanket I couldn’t shake off.
there was no fear there,
at least, no worry of common danger
just the anxiousness of insomnia
nothing more sinister than that.
I’d think about the sky
unfurled like a bolt of satin
stretched above my head,
but I knew it wasn’t flat.
I knew it yawned into infinity
and that made me feel unwell.
I didn’t like how it made me feel.
I concentrated on the chorus of crickets
and the scent of warm earth,
chanting under my breath
in time with every heartbeat,
but I knew it meant nothing to the universe
I knew I would eventually die
and become the earth and the crickets and the ponies
but I knew it meant something to me
in that moment
on a gravel road in the countryside
sometime after midnight.
And I still try to remember how it felt.