Elliott

Open field
brittle, cold
prickles into the back
of my nylon jacket
an oddly comforting
grassy cushion
where I rest my head
to observe the moon
watching it peek
and push its way through
a gathering of clouds
to rest its glow
on my anemic skin.

The bases are absent
stored for the season
their impression still
creasing the ground
the spectators home
reduced to flannels
dreaming of this place
on a remote controlled night
while in its heart I lay.