On the Rusted Gears of an Abandoned Gin

There is a quiet field somewhere
That doesn’t move
Like the city
When I saw it today
And it was all blue
Even the black was
Like the mismatched socks
In my drawer when you did my laundry
Which now we only
Hang one another
Out to dry
And the radio plays the same songs
Something is different
But not with the songs
They rustle the windowpane
And chipped white paint

The field would only have one tree
And in the frozen dusk
The sun already has forgotten
Where it lent its rays
Like the loneliness
Of a bullet leaving a six-shooter
Finding no flesh

To be this alone
Would be to lose the thought
Of my distant field
Or to learn that love
Is an animal carcass
Turned inside out
By the bloody jowls
Of hungry mountain cats
That drip the full sun
In and out of existence
This darkness grows
With their hungry empty stomachs
From the corners of my eyesight

There is everything
In the darkness
That should frighten you
Like nothing
Or if nothing was obliterated
Then dressed in its Sunday best
Given a name
An awkward smile
Then held your hand