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.