Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 

            She stood in tears amid the alien corn;  — John Keats

i sway with the wind

back & forth & back again

i would close my eyes

but i’m scared they’ll never open

the wind is people– that is

their force is innumerable

i let the wind push me

where it desires me to be

i live with memory

an imprint on the soul

fading when touched 

my eyes are wide open

memory is people– that is

they come and go

i let memory move me

where it desires me to be

amid the alien corn

the fields are familiar

to each other

i am the strange one

the corn is not people– that is

their wants don’t concern me

my breath is a queer sound

weird is my nature

my feet are still

the stalks tower high above 

covering me like a shroud

i am where i desire to be

amid the alien corn

i don’t sway

i don’t see