Swallowed flies escalate horseward
Not now, horse; be saddled or be swept away on a lungful of the cold dawn air, heavy, neighing cloud!
Little turnips grow. Leave them alone
Do not dig; their enormity is all a myth
Let them sleep in earth, like we all must do, when all your dirty dramas are as still as you
Sink your withering words without sound in the shallows
Let me throw your voice to the nesting sparrows
Be silent now – it’s almost dark enough to hear all those songs you forgot to love
Finish what you’ve begun, leaving things badly drawn
Light arrives from the sun, a billion babies born
As, thighbones high, we wade out and out and out and out
Until we become nothing…
…And are everything, things we’ve never seen
We breathe out at last, we breathe out at last