is a yield.
Is the falling into
of a field.
If of sunflowers.
If you fall
into their orbits
with heavy-headed hunger,
with urge.
If curvature.
If a million mirrors
mirror the suns
you bury yourself among.
If you’re uprooted
and flung
toward the sun,
face-first.
If perihelion.
If your faith
to the field
is uncertain
as a hawk’s flight
from a lureless glove.
If so, then rest somewhere
between these two
surfaces of sun
in an endless catch
and fall.
Let your face
face the direction
you came from.