the sun turns over like a coin 

in the field we plant light bulbs,
cupping the dirt & feeling the texture of soil
between fingers. this year was for corn but 
no one has wanted to eat since june 
when the bugs screamed from each tree &
the sun grew tired of herself & floated 
like a tennis ball in the creek. we are working people.
we are makers. we take the plastic sandbox shovels
& we get to work. this bulb lit my bed room
a life ago when i was a girl & i lined up
my boots in pair at the bottom of my closet.
this bulb is from the hallway long & yellow
that we all walked down to each night. a hallway 
is sometimes more like a staircase than
the staircase. oh, the dirt is asking to 
plant more so i unscrew more bulbs from
the house. we are growing light. we are growing
lamps & sconces & chandeliers if we're lucky,
what with the sun shrinking each day.
we all go down to stare into it. we don't go 
blind at least not yet. the blaze burns small 
pin-prick holes in our vision. i want 
to escape through one but no we are growers.
no we are making something alive. 
the lamps are starting to bloom now
& we are stepping back to the edge 
of the field. come harvest we will need
extension chords to keep all these lamps happy.
there are lamps with shades & tall lanky lamps 
with adjustable heads & lamps that are supposed 
to hang from ceilings. all lamps are edible 
in a time like this. i watch another 
pluck the ripe hot bulb free 
& stuff it into his mouth. the crunching of glass
between teeth. i wonder if this all
could ever make up for the loud sun 
we grew up underneath. i go alone to visit it
& see it the size of a snail shell. it's caught
between two rocks. the algae bubbles.
the water is boiling & cooked fish 
rise to the surface. i tell the sun it can rest now
that we've built a field of light. i tell
the sun that it worked so hard that it doesn't need
to feel guilty for going out. the sun turns over
like a coin. the sun closes its one eye 
& the darkness that envelops us is tangible & soft
like stuffing bursting from the background.
i sometimes wonder if this is just an intricate
diorama. i go back to the field where everyone else
is huddled underneath the lamps.
i pick one to sit under. oh lamp, if i could
plug myself into the dirt. if i could bury 
a fragment & make another version of myself
full of glowing. the bulb, like a fruit,
glares at me & i remind myself that we don't
need to eat anymore. that temptation 
is for the sun & not for workers who do good.
who wake up each day full of productivity
& take their hands, thrusting them into the soil.
tomorrow when i awake the world will be brighter
& so on each day until there's no memory of 
that yellow tired orb. we have nothing to do with 
landscape. we have everything to do with 
beauty. i had a bed made of wood. i have a window 
the sun used to come in. here though, here is
where i will stay. if i sleep at the field
i will be more ready to work tomorrow.