The Ground Beneath me(haystacks for dead french painters)

When it will give way
to the remaining days
to all the strands of hay
outside in a field somewhere

we were running around
time cast aside
tree fruit ripening
but we're dying on the vine.

Its been a long time
out here
in these fields.
where fallow and formless
the days became aimless
and they were mine.

one line merges
into the next
they all connect themselves
somewhere where you and the pen
break up and fall apart.
You tell it your secrets
reveal yourself
in art
but you reveal yourself
no matter how
because that's the way you are.