Come Hither.

“Come hither”

is the pylon’s dare.

Its hum is above,

beyond

& everywhere.

“God forgot

this pallid

scratch of scrubland.”

“So,

stare me down,” I say.

It shrugs its shoulders

& bares its teeth.

It tongues the air.

It thumbs me.

Unrelenting, this autumnal glare:

low sun & tree bark, hidden.

There is no birdsong here.

No breeze, no air, just

psychic rhythm.

The palette, I fear, is only iron.

Iron & arterial.

The bees, sweet bees, are merely sleeping.

I shield my eyes & try not listen.