I want to go way out where
the sky is green where I can tear up
certainty and make irregularity
out of string and strip
the departed the muted the rare
good primary labor
the sort that does not leave
spots or streaks or dust or bits of bone
just the broken subtlety
of found cloth hard to come by
fields of yellow flower and wild thyme
and salt and pepper ‘case the witches come
where you can piece yourself
get the dust out and winter burn
rise up in the morning time
every stuff of your own all there no pattern
just over the hills a scattering
of fog and white pine and the young
mother singing to her baby
lulla lulla
rain do come down my beauty
it do come down —