The field resists a single interpretation, and its disagreement becomes a more honest relation than forced agreement.
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The field does not agree. It offers grass, then ash, then a brightness without source. I ask which one is true. The field keeps offering. My question grows tired. The afternoon does not.
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A crossing-at-night poem about moving when the signal changes and choosing action over waiting.
A platform-side poem about a last train, a softened ticket and the light of other lives moving beyond reach.
A late-night road poem about taking the wrong exit, leaving an old stopping place behind and continuing without a map.
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