FIELD OF DEAD SUNFLOWERS
Something the gods have left behind,
something created to be disowned,
a place of purgation for wearied minds
where thoughts can be cleansed of their sentiment,
hearts wrung roughly out like cheap sponges, a spot
a child might seek, having left behind
the walls and the windows it knows, to wander
and wring its songs free of their soapy sop.
Somewhere a flight of charred starlings might stop
and make landing, to perch like scarecrow-heads,
sun-scorched sentinels bored backwards by flight,
burnt free of the tiresome desire to soar
through celluloid-bright cerulean light.
Somewhere the disaster you make of your life
can be spoken through silence and, if understanding
requires more kindness than your gods can muster,
somewhere an approximation of peace
might settle on you like the grainy white powder
shat out of the back of a groaning crop-duster.