Just last night it was early summer
as I stood, at home and deeply rooted,
in a warm wheat field, net in hand.
I was waiting for and eating words as
they danced and whispered by on a
dripping, pollen-loaded, musky breeze.
I saw them coming from a distance in
hoards - stormy, echo-leaved colonies -
they were riding the silver crests of dusk.
They only ever blew my way, onto my lips,
when another one of God's infinite faces died
somewhere - they are made of endless deaths.
Here they are shuffled - sifted, stacked and
sorted - then they are tailored and en-vased.
They never last much longer than cut flowers.