I heard a sound in the night – they were slicing up the life raft.

In the morning I saw the horses had left the field for the winter. At the gas station they

knew.

The men are still up on the hill talking about when the lake goes, so will the money.

I bought the girl I like a frog, but I only see her when she comes to the gas station.

And the wind shortens the cliff, but there can be no acronym for it. Consequent roadside

tree.

All our iron nowadays comes from melted down refrigerators and microwaves.

A deer-cry shelter in the yellow above allnight, forgotten ore in the stream.

A life raft endless in the fiddleheads and plum sod. Peter drew knives

Like the druid takes the wild boar’s name.

Our words, the town’s, are kite-dead bees exiting a hawk.