dummy

Tall one the backyard
and to which vines belong
a sweeter than Bougainvillea I reck not
she envies or cries,
Don’t follow me through here
Don’t, you can’t
reach back for me / If I cut my hair
there’s a hard time ahead (leaning down
for more rocks, into the barrow)
If I grace the plow
there’s a generous dust on the fields,
maybe you’ll slow
If I call Grandfather, Grandfather, hurry
there’s a nail here that will not stay
Fold the body into the fields and doors