It’s strange when the land
Glows like a bed lit with sun
As you drive through fields,
But the fields have signs
That tell you they hate
You. No. Can’t be true.
Must your brain force you
“To make sense of all
Things all of the time”?
The book is the past.
Once, it was so strange,
Weird in the strong sense,
To see signs at all
And hear a seer read
To prove he knew them,
Signs were seen as spells,
Runes, fate, what God wrote.
The book says. The Book.
But we’re all seers now,
And we all have books,
And faiths, our own signs.
I want to come back
To the fields at night
And blur all those signs.
Not burn them. Not write
Signs on top of signs.
Just blur them. That’s right.
