JAMES PRESTON

The Old Field Hit Me Like a Broken Dam

Stranded in the middle
of the scorched grass;
a fragment falling off 
memory’s edge into the black 
ocean, stirring under stars

Looking back; the procession 
of doors and trembling,
of rooms and roads and meals
and warmth and rain and loss
Hands, never to be held again.

The field opens, vast 
landscape and laughter
births a new void.