“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.
nickreeves 
eyes heavy with that look. iron and arterial. stare me down. it thumbs me. psychic rhythm. yes: eyes heavy with that Come Hither. look. Nick.
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