Something that I wouldn’t understand.
And the grass stems
Stiffening to bear the headed grain,
The rose,
The hawthorn
Covering with bony fingers
Their swollen wombs,
The summer shrivelling to husks, to shells,
Pease-cods, seedboxes,
The summer sucking through a withered straw
Enough stale water for a few beans,
For a handful of swelling peas in a sealed bladder,
For the living something in a closed womb.
Upon the sand
This brine, these bubbles—
The wave of summer is drowned in the salt land.
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