Tie - Benoît Pioulard

Flee to the fields, it’s a locust year

Leas & melt-water to defy the seer

A rosary around the wrists

The rope descends with tenderness

Oh they’ve got a file on me

The Venn pall of anxiety

Sticks across fences make a raucous sound

The call of the abyss, foxglove’s on the ground

Flee to the fields, take your calmative

First to arrive, always the last to leave

O the rapture of the plain, an intimation of mortality

A halcyon sketch of persistent unease hanging from the Magnolia tree