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At Times What I Wish for the Field I Wish for Myself


Noon, but dark.
                         Through the window, a long-
           toothed rain.

The passing cyclist's blinking
                         headlight a signal
           I can't answer.

On the news, refugees
                         swim for their lives.
           I remind myself

that they're real.
                         What I don't know
           pours through

every channel and
                         makes its way
           to another mouth.

I watch the weather,
                         practice being present
           to elsewhere.

Someone has decided
                         what paradise is,
           and for whom. Has mapped

the coordinates, blessed
                         the gated, powered the helios
           fields luxuriating

in their own fund
                         of radiance. They're real
           as well. Fields that recall

Elysium, walls to admire
                         from space, families swimming.
           Interiors surface

as architecture.
                         I imagine the fields
           upturning themselves

to reveal a city
                         made of fibrous lace
           or lucid suspension cables:

aerated design that gives
                         structure but is somehow
           gateless as sky.

What power
                         would constellate
           our atoms

in that alternate here?
                         What skin
           would encase us,

and would we break
                         everybody open
           like we do now,

as if to escape living
                         inside the circuitry
           of a blood system.

These as-ifs
                         we choose from.
           Which loops and paths

pattern us.


Cory Hutchinson-Reuss

Crazyhorse

Fall 2016


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