Julianna Barwick

the vocals loop liked a well-knit stitch,
blanketing the flat field,
encountering no hinderances from trees
or towers
or tanks.

breathy, brisk wind wailing,
“imaginaanthaanthaanthaanthaa…”
before fading into loose dust and sky,
dry, bright, and still noxious.

the land recalls when
the fruits self-actualized
on schedule, however untidy the season.

the earth cracks crooked smiles
as though struggling to say,

“the flowers were once quite beautiful here.”

Julianna Barwick