The Field’s Edge

Sitting on her rock
She imagines
A blue stone in her palm
Birds still sing
Rising to a mountain
Birds get quieter
The Devil sits in the grass
Breathes his own flames
As she undresses
The Devil
A light in the dark
Tastes the middle of her palm
She washes the wind
From her body
Under scattered stars
The Devil points to his heart
The stone she holds
A green orchid