Fallow Field

The belly between the bendy days
and the oncoming headlights of sexual reckoning
lies the fallow field
of thirty
some
odd
years.

Why desire has turned his head
she does not know, only that the sun
is as mediocre as ever but its shadows cast
weight
not light. No pilgrims

line the side of the road, thumbs to approve.
The highway stretches for miles
over the prairie, under crows, beside the bovine,
slight inclines, reclines, declines.
Threatening, benign, the field,
her fallow field,
is her only travelling companion
through this dusty weather.