I can never have the field. I can never halve the field, make a helix of my hands and hold the halves like pictures of the field—or fields—and affix one feeling to the fields—or the infinite field—and stay that way I can walk down to the bog, the field under-foliate-feet, in a bloodflow motion towards the beating of the bullfrogs’ black-lacteous tactile pool and listen to the unilluminable below-surface stirring, gravid ruckus of drooling purr and primordial bluebrown blur.
