At the coming of Summer
Tears rush before the syllable is over.
I sweep and sweep and when I look up
the world is there
I have simply replaced each grain of it
And so I turn my mind to the harvest
to my little friends, burrowed in the golden wheat
and those all-seeing ones
spinning above the planet.
Oh eat me alive the mice call up to them
I want to feel your hands around me
or as you call them talons.