Golden Hour

My hand out the vehicle window:

the fields convey me home in their

quietness, wherever are open palms

of wheat-yellow. Between each

phone wire, I strip my

memory to when he saw the sky and

land contact in petition, the birds

flying looking like a fast fuck.

That absurd, silly kid marked by

yellow at brilliant hour prior

slipping into a dark suit — the evening,

paparazzi with prepared eyes blazing

once more, to see him. What's more, I see him.

The request stays away forever, replied.

The day is a stunt. A grimy, filthy stunt.

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