the next field over

have i told you about the crooked circle 
of wood i cut to protect this farm?
almost-symmetry has always left me softer

dutch folks like the farmer’s grandmother
call it a hex sign; a way to bewitch a blessing
to protect from the elements, from the elemental 
way a thing can be taken in an instant

the stories like the night here are endless
one is a bolt of lightning on the east side of the barn
another, the face in the mirror of a woman much older

have i told you about sorrow?

how i tried to careen it onto the barn roof
whoevers i could hold, bend it into an arrow 
and shoot it into the myth of these fields?

what of the tricks we tell ourselves        

it’s like this: 
on the property line, there is a brick window 
purposeless, no glass to shatter
passable by wind and whatever blows with it

o sweet illusion that there’s nothing to come up against

have i told you

the quiet of dew still trembles where it could be caught
transparent, suspended, giving a shape to even the air