Swaths of wheat cross the fields in currents so thick they cannot move. Summer run-off. How much ripeness they must carry, how much light caught in stalk and seed head. I want to float down their clotted water, my body's sails catching the heart's held breath. It takes me nowhere, this slow flux, the rows stopped in mid-motion, the day's long lethargy. Wind minnows flicker in streams of wheat, in the lingering of an eye, golden like the goat's at the edge of the field where the grass isn't cut. His horizontal pupils slant the light, making everything lie down.
This poem was selected by George Bowering, former Poet Laureate of Canada, as poem of the week. It can be found at