Dreamwrapt The song I once sang as a teen lies somewhere inside the quarry. The notes, having dropped like rain, a sonic blue where unending lands before the last grand sunset. Consider the field—the call the lily makes, the way death thinks us into sleep, smalling an air-cry towards a new season. The meadow coaxes out the night through the slant in a quantum circle. What’s left, a siren song, navy and receding, while the day glows back, the moon, led astray. We never stem the poppy. Each riddle loops us towards the next stitching pain.