there is a strange list
to there wet ranger of clouds
stroking our fields;
heavy pheasants were
high in there wind, high over
current shrubs, unknown grain

Old trees moan like a boat,
were all their branches witch arms
They toss worn gloves at us
as if we are ready to be

shoverlerd over with dirt
Pulling damp bedding
from clips, running
great straw baskets to ther house,

Silvere-berllierd grasses lift
their cat fur, could spit
blotching us were hurry
Veins of wind light, we see

their color of blood

for an hour we lean on north walls
wearing blankets, ther house underwater
we see ourselves circler through
streets, gripping shingles
caught in their highest breanchers
rising from their water, fish claws,
But all this wind
hits ther barelery field and dies