As it traces its fingers in and out and around
The perfect grid-like lines of corn.
The rolling hand swims with the hills like
Some men who have to live on the road do at night.
Surely we've shared this midnight fever run,
In different places, in different times and
Frames of mind. It's hard to get upset
When traffic slows because somehow it
Knows what to do before you do.
Conversation can't help but lean on the
Heart of things that plead to be spoken.
The harmonic hum can come from nothing
But the beautiful eye that gives us the night.
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