Long Lens

How prolific are the sides of roads,
tansy-teeming, space-surrounded, full-ways grown;
lank-headed, broaching their own horizons,
tossing nectar-celled tiaras, potent
on the wayside, ditch-side, drive-by,
gravel-eating, house-drowning, bat-playing
greenery of the mountain-watched flats,
pondering the early moon. That sky surprise
on the east's field, freely, has gained,
for the eve-time whispering, pullover trance;
a man seated on his truck's back cradles
a camera's unwieldy, forearm-long lens
on the roof, pylon-wide towards its end.
Protracting this wyrd weed-eye to capture
the full-flushed escapee: bare, the flat face
blushes gold like a ripened field of grain
over the babyish earth - moon, moon, moon,
as a boon of glory we could not take,
but stare we must, stare, and so we wake.