There’s a field, wet with cricket song. There’s a moon, 
jaundiced in harvest. Inside me, bruises like clouds 

pulling back to reveal the same unending sky. Blue 
kernels on the picked over cobs. There’s my head, 

sour with youth, in a field’s grass, under a moon, 
next to a prince in a straw hat. Him telling bits of a story 

all out of order. I’m not becoming, but coming 
out of. A moth nibbling at sugar. He says 

your body is a memory which will soon have too much 
of itself to know what to do with. I say, 

let me forget then. Bangles of stars hanging overhead
like cutouts. Deer picking through the shelterbelt,

eyes milky with winter. It’s just about to snow. 
The land just about to change, to obliterate itself. 

I’m ready for the taking. If only the taking would come.