In Campo Aperto by Richie Hofmann

In Campo Aperto

I lean against the lime-tree and watch

as crows come down from their branches to the sun-ruined field,

arranging themselves in the dry grass like ink-strokes

on a yellowed score. It is summer.

I am humming to myself, my back to the bark.

Somewhere, like a listless river, is a way

of forgetting. My fist loosens—

perhaps I’ve forgotten how often we betrayed one another.

Whatever grain I am carrying, you come to claim it,

like a wild crow eating from my hand.