A man drinks beer on a porch and watches a sunset. The sun melts into water and he stays. A moon hangs, and he sees the stars. A white dusk settles, and he is there.
Some time passes, and he is there while the moon suns. In golden light he thinks of things that come to mind for a while. The moon glows.
He walked a far field once, and there saw the grain move in the wind. A place that had no ceiling to sky, a plane of iron blue till the edges of his eyes.
Lost in a nondescript ocean of yellow and blue and far off green, and another. A bright glare, the dirt on his feet, a heat and a quick beat to the heart. Flitting thoughts drifted in and out of focus, a heavy and comfortable blur.
Their sets left transient tracks, but he could see them when he looked back. He dragged fingers through plants as he passed and felt, a feeling he remembered being blind.
Two climbed higher into the earth cutting sky and talked of things.
The shadow of the doubt to be carried, a weight that might be forgotten at a time or for a time but that would not be lifted.
The deal bought or traded in birth, drawn lines in the universe's blanksand; a shepherd to make howl in the night any consciousness to try running off to a nonexistent place; the joy and pain and love and desire in it, the predictable loss, the impossible hope that it might be redone.
He walked past flowers and so did she, turning to face the tide of rippling green, a single knot stretching across until a coincidence of sun and sea stopped it.
He remembered no scent or drift in the breeze but saw small flowers of color budding in the plants ignited in his eyes. Two stopped, staring to the closed eye opened ear of the awesome surround.