Monday, 28 April 2014

24. Rapeseed

Go to the fields of rapeseed. It doesn’t matter
how you get there—walk, crawl, hitch a truck
so long the caterpillars mock its axles. Just go.
Forsake everything for a yellow so ripe it unfurls
in your mouth with soft lion tongues that transmorgify
into attic cobwebs and leap headfirst into the breeze.
Don’t pause for thronged traffic or spilt sugar
or lover’s letters caught in the mail. Go—
I’ll be waiting, swaddled in pollen, drenched in dust.
Come on hands and knees to the field of rapeseed.
I’ll scald your eyes with gelb horizons, then
pull you to my level and make you sneeze.

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