Shy, he stepped off into the cornfield. I could see
   his back muscles under the damp shirt quiver and go slack.
Turning again to face the shade, he smiled at me, not
   squinted, smiled, and finished tugging shut his fly.
Now, when the cornstalks in the night wind slide
   like fire, I see him. He steps closer in my dream.
I don't know, where he sleeps, if sleep refreshes him,
   but here it works me like hot metal over a flame.

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