Rasp

The heat rises in distorted gold
             waves around fire
                          but without fire,
             shimmering, twisting

anything seen through it.
             The heat rises, rasping
                          the air it rises through,
             scuffing the surface,

if the air has a surface.
             The tall summer
                          field is the keeper
             of secrets. Lie down

and forget your body, forgive
             your body its bad cradle,
                          its brokenness.
             Lie down and listen

to the rasp, to heat sweep
             the pale, dry grass as if
                          it were your own
             breathing, as if the field
 

you’ve pressed your shape into
             is a broom in reverse,
                          a broom being
             swept by the wind.