Just a few minutes after eleven,
and I won't be sorry until sunset,
when you have chased the horizon
into a black laugh and unblinking sleep.
My wishes are scattered in fallen words,
cast to your feet like bruised wedding petals,
to your eyes looking, looking for the herd,
afraid that you girls—you woman,
you—have strayed too far on legs too weak.
What will we two knead? The flour and leaven,
in a kitchen where the sun rays no debt,
where we are not (s)old, and we are not burned.
You girls. You. What happens if you don't turn?