Parallax
I want not the evening reflection of the white birch trees in the flooded ditch.
I want not the tire embedded at the top of the hillock.
I want not the lady’s slippers clustered in tiptoed ellipses.
I want not the telephone wires, stitched in the trees.
I want not the spotted goats chewing by the fence,
or the planted deaths and the crooked weight of stones.
I want only to show you how staggering green the field,
its opulence opening the eye’s stopple,
until it ripens behind us.
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