The full fields of dandelions popped in ripples as a breeze moves along strings producing sounds vibrating as a single drone affixed within the multitude of green blades each one holding up a petaled face, round and yellow centers with white light streams flowing out in brief stubs for want, of trying to reach what burns intimately far, away past the chill, what was thought, was night but merely turning; a flung axis caught within the bend of actuality by gas and stone. Fields affixed and flung of dandelions, each vibrating in the blade of drones holding up the yellow, stunted stubs in white briefs trying intimately to reach past night the chill of thought caught bending like strings in streams of burning actuality turning upon mere centers of stone that pop with sound when ripples round the petals caught. while above, flying over this ghost the shriek of prey in line topples the erstwhile scenery And the bean maker arrived with cast iron gills rummaging under his cowboy hat around the train of wagon wheels that cut and creaked in tracks, made from the many settlers gone before now dead along the plots in buried thickets of bramble and mounds with little white nameplates crossed as signs. Spit on the ground the sizzle of beans jeans stinking and adjust the crotch technicians marveled the curious site while collecting on their pay, the priests in shambles foreclosed the night and bundled up the day as magicians coiled the brandy sticks while trotting amid their way. And beans smell in the field reached out to gather up the ghosts who passing through the cast iron clutched nothing more to fill, above flying over the prey lined sight, his hackles stirred while fed the bean maker grizzled another pump then headed off to bed. A thin spread on blades beneath what never came to mind, but did from bardic songs released in air which wafted through his head, that wafted under the frying pan he held for all his worth and held his bedroll tighter still within his turning world. Dawn rose swift the priests might say from what was turned away yet foreclosed still in yellow pills the blood remained at bay yet rising up from mounds of verse the cackles and the sprigs, the forsworn gift of falling leaves to point inside the dead, and dead not only as coin rusts on to fill the hearts of men but dead as voice in memories brings a life to all that's said in memory of the gleaming fields that stumbled from our chest and bitter deeds that made the day when glory stooped to rest.