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.