Coffee and Irony

Hours repeat their work.
They bleach the evil blooms,
dust the field in tinder.
If there is a wind
tithing through the corn again,
they make it spirit,
measuring the seasonal reenactment
of how we got here
against the constant wheat.
Like distant trains,
the stars help us move closer
to what tiny faith
lurks within our breathing.
Migration’s old tambourines
wave beneath the singing.
Sitting on the porch,
I’ll believe anything:
that we are better than we are;
that we might find better ways
to want to be.

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“The Field” by Christopher DeWeese, Atlas Review