In a field of thousands
of wheat stalks, millions of wheat
stalks, countless wheat stalks, is the sound
of the field desiccating itself. Or the field of the sun

desiccating the field
of the soil. To the south, a house
with diamonds of glass, diamonds next
to diamonds, became a heap of ash, the diamond panes

bursting when the heat
pressed out from inside. There
were dark-particled plumes in the air:
shadow-birds, the flaws in our sky of diamond, rising

ink, dissipating,
disassembling—the charred
stalks of the charred house, where,
in a series of photographs, a child who was

loved, appeared,
her hair first blonde then
darkened, the progression crepuscular
through the passing of many years, as her eyes remained
the lightest of blues.
It is not the overturning field
that blackens her image, nor the burning
house. It is the turning sphere that turns night-ward. In

this field, only
the insects light the sky.
As embers, they travel ever-upward,
diminishing with greater height, blending into the open

air, the open
air, an opening made by an exodus.