Luke butler photo cred.

I saw a man in a field, the man in the field in rough brown and cold denim; his attire human soldier wear; he lay sleeping drawn out in peace, I watched from afar perhaps the man had eyes that opened and touched the scent of grass that brushed upon his sodden limbs, from a closer place I watched with out a twitch or breath from he or I, a closer step and a louder step nearer, gentle creep into intimacy with this man, from a place curled up inside him from behind him I watched, he lay sleeping. I thought to me, I came to me in clarity that life is an instance, more than a travel or desire and in an escape I found this man who is telling me more. He made it clear that this is man, we can not be one but all, what utterance is greater, what command or folly? A man is here to toss, turn and grasp and be each person, each breath. I realized that I was not enough I had to be granted greater, the only way, to collapse into myself propelling myself forward collapsing again and again and by action to only be still, to create a tongue, a taste, encompassing every act that twitched. I needed to embrace that nothing was enough, that wholly I had to consume every spec of dirt coming across my path.

I watched for very long, he slept, not a sound came, I wanted to speak to him, to touch him, to hold his head against my chest, to stroke his beard, great man I found.

After hours, his skin changed and his face seemed dryer and I realized great man was dead. So I stole his clothes and fingered his watch.