Alexander Hawkins

Under a buzzing mechanical Cyclops,
the carefree run carelessly
through fields of fire-cracked sizzling rapeseed
backlit by the pure blue of firmament's filament.

Joy cascades and splits upon the stony cliffs of acrid spirit
and sunders joy until there's nothing left but spittle
spat from hack to hack and back again
until it is a vagrant joylessness, exotic in the midst of a bloom.