The wind stammers. My foot enters the picture. Over the loudspeaker, a voice.
Caught up in your hair, pieces of afternoon, gentle crying of light.
In the stream the water behind comes against us.
Ask him the question. Bend the wires of the fence. Press your finger into the crevice.
Hurtling into. But it's not. So then.
There's no autobiography apparent. She twists around to look. The cloud dampens.
Prefacing his remarks, the speaker. I undid it. In the cups. Rain falls or doesn't on my meadow.
Over and against, and what is more, and who it was, but then the dog is what and I.
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