TyreeBW.jpg

Tyree Daye

In the first draft of “I Don’t Know What Happens to Fields” there is a big tactic lime green thread running through it trying to hit every corner of the narrative. In the final version the thread is black, thinner and in the wind.

< draft >

i don’t know what happens to fields


I’ve never left this clay; I built a man with it—
he walks around breathing and drying out.
I imagine a field I’ve made out of fields laid in as a child. 
The sun turning the grass an earth green.

The woods around these fields have marked me 
with ticks behind my knees, scars 
like kisses from the smallest mouths. 

The train leaving Youngsville smells like my grandmother
walking into the end of a dream.
Tracks all over America have bodies under them. 
I found clay in the softest spot of me. 

I pulled it off and molded it into a small ball 
I rolled down a hill three generations long,
so many thumbs pressed into me.

 

“I Don’t know What Happens to Fields” is a line borrowed from Larry Levis.

< REVISION >

I don’t know what happens to fields


I’ve never left this clay   I built a man with it    
he walks around breathing and drying out 

I’ve made whole days out of fields 
laid in as a child  the woods around them 

have marked me with ticks behind my knees
scars like kisses by the smallest mouths 
the train leaving Youngsville smells like my grandmother

walking into the open-air of a dream
tracks all over America have bodies under them
still dreaming of mothers and babies

I found clay 
in the softest spot of me   I pulled it off   
I molded it into a splintered myth 
rolled it down a hill generations long   
so many thumbs pressed into me

 

“I Don’t know What Happens to Fields” is a line borrowed from Larry Levis.