A string bag of them gives off

the wet smell of earth before anything.

The year is infant, and trees stand

with their naked wood.

Nothing lies down beside nothing.

Even ice is on and off, gone, still here,

thawing, shivering,

I’ll show you—come see. 

The road is one long puddle.

The sun floats up, and stops.

The magpie waits to be two. The sparrow hides



beside the mailbox on its iron post, hedge

nailed together by thorns.

          The house

is one black window. The school is



a blue slate roof. The playground is empty,

and on the field

even the sheep are vanished as she



says nothing, no word, no word,

no word enough and cuts

the world into soil.