Again the slack journey into the valley, shades of church and salad
Grit in the eye where a sleeve catches, surprised, unlearning the city’s texture,
that callus levered up, like the hat of an egg. I hate to give in to this vein, smiling,
yes, to new friends, I am a country girl, conditioned to early rising, fat milk,
the smell of shit, the slip of a jellied lamb held tight in the arms, and
(why not) Auntie’s hotpot on a Sunday, she a great old girl who wouldn’t give
an inch, that’s the way we’re made. I can still remember her brown linoleum
and she died in the house she was born in, we consider that a fine way to go.

While all around the cool, sombre hills hallooe the lie,
that yours is a rain-soaked voice, a grass-fed heart.

That poor seed sown in this earth flourishes, nonetheless