There was a time when it was beautiful.
I was 7, and 18, and 25
and the scene always captivated me as we passed by
70 miles an hour —
brilliantly wide as long fields of corn,
row after row passing so evenly, masterfully, quickly, that I couldn’t stare for very long without
experiencing their effect, trance-like ocular weariness,
weariness that comes from the taking in of too large,
These days my eyes get tired for all sorts of reasons
but this is different.
Many years ago,
gazing at the crumbling Antiguan ruins,
and even now, into his twin blue lakes
I have learned that when something is that beautiful,
like the volcano rising up from lake Atitlan
and messy rows of maize at the base,
like the view of village children dancing their folkloric steps
in rainbowed traditional garb,
like the slow moving butterfly of the ordinary people
moving forward for wine and bread and then round back,
wing-shaped to their pew,
I cannot take it in.
and turn away.
like I do in the Volkswagon to save me from getting dizzy
as we flame by the stunningly massive and perfectly parallel
rows of corn.
A lateral testament
to genetic superiority–
but the bees are not impressed,
and there are no birds.
Yes, this is different.
I do not turn from the fantastic proportions
because of beauty
but from horror,
like the soldiers of a bruised or brainwashed master race
lined to march unto death
stunningly massive and perfectly parallel
so big it’s hard to look away
the size breeds a curiosity
that only knows better once the rows turn