The Field is Open
Going on, unable to order
a plot of land that is not a prison pen.
Monotony spreading, reflected in
nerve endings frantic with anxiety.
Repetitive motion, futility rises, and also that voice
that wants to turn even this into a ceremony,
but can’t, can’t stomach the steps, the one-by-one steps
of petty materialism that must be endured, focused
on, taken so seriously. Going on, like a torturous
continuance, swelling the mind with mealworm madness.
Going on, with no way out, a lifetime sentence,
a sorrow that has metastasised into despair.
Dig out, dig me out, let the miracle rise and cover
my home. Multiplying buds – at the entrance, entering,
side-stepping this sinister fate, slicing
the circle, cleared of the heavy shadows, cleared
to name a new street and walk down it.
Receiving like birds receive
music, breaking the ethereal framework,
dissolving the rut grime delusion,
peeking over the top, peace
taken into the mouth, peace
that is grace, that is receiving,
fastened freely to the flow.
© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Outlaw Poetry” May 2018
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