So untrue my firm countrymen, so untrue. Your reckless hellos and your gurgling sorrows – clasped in each other’s arms. I direct you to the grand panorama that God has built – some hundred years ago over that ridge they came, strong planks smashed into dirt
my rocker rocks on pounded earth
In my lap a quilt is lain. Child, ask your brother to go check the sundial. The Beckman clan calls for the death of another animal, and I need finish my sewing by nightfall.
***
Whistling into your picture and finding naught but the lonely still so afraid. Before long we will head above ground, the spun thread of all that lies gently upon your leg will prepare for the lift and glare that wakes you up. Only the done and the sad must be sorry, only the dead spot in your brain where the blood silently pools. Let us to the No more nearness and worry – no more undeclared weakness. My ankles are crushed, my eyes, when God knelt down in front of those children it was already too late. Yesterday in your queer drunken state you went and when you called – such shallow charms for will we cannot go – you said it so simply – that lace on your leg, and those who do so sew such things in hope of keeping them.
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