A woman in a lime-bright visibility vest goaded us, authoritarian.

“You need to go through here in order to cross the path to the meadow.”

She pointed towards rope labyrinths, invisible social construct barriers.

“Sheesh. It goes straight through the gift shop.”

Horrifying, how little choice we have in it.

Just like we mocked on the bus ride here, but much less funny.

Exit through the gift shop, good God.

“It’s alright, we’ll just blow through.”

We zoomed through the right side of the zombie-line,

Might as well have been a speed limit. (we would have broken it anyways)

Gravel paths rounded nuanced around like a Sturbridge traffic disperser.

It was deliberate, everything was.

Nearby Neolithic replica huts we couldn’t help but snap a photo of sat to the right.

Every step forward was a step towards particles bursting from excitement, imaginary danger.

Silly rules like this are meant to be broken.

Barbwire ain’t shit to us when a garden out of Steven Universe awaits.

But it was tall, and we were not.

We cross M and S, and gush momentarily about poppy field dreams only minutes from realizing.

They told us a two-word poem. “Do it.”

Thousands of little red crowns jutting out like a sea were just a fencepost away.

A few of the posts leaned in lazy, something did their best to kick them down.

How lucky for us.

Security was nowhere in sight.

We leap the lackadaisical barbs and book it like a prison run.

I can’t stop giggling, I have a secret.

I have a crush on you poppy, every single one of you.

I dive in head first into unpermitted territory,

The red of my shirt turning me invisible like a fantasy novel.

We made like angels in the knee-deep fields,

Looking up in the stark blue sky with a mountainous halo of red petals encircling,

What I would to do go back and live it one more time.

We shot up like pups, and snapped each other snapping each other.

And just like that, we popped up and out and ran out the fence once more.

“You’re trespassing!” The security guard lightly admonished.


We felt lively like an Oxford rooftop,

A bright-eyed conversation of poetry.

Puns rolling off the tongue with a knowing smile,

Flirting with a rosy sunburn.


You’re goddamn right we are.


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