A swift zephyr
makes a wake through
the slobbering air.
Finally sober,
the bluebells cover their
naked blue.
What is it about a field in July
that the soul vacates the
body at the sight of it?
Somewhere my digital life,
a harried and unmastered thing,
whines for my eyes and fingers,
my writhing agency.
But here the analog
grass whispers in the heat
“We will always outnumber
your people.”
Miniature Moon 