thresh

Gray mole digs out, squints at
winter light; black grapes, true
blood dilute in early rain

There’s a thing they say happens
every seven years or so
return to the quarry –

landless gleaners treading out
the furrows; tangled in their hair
winged burrs, questions

– how the deadfall must be
collected
– how the stones wrought

take my hand –

who has the language right for every
change? and every thought let loose
in this threshold

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