In the only village hall, wearing snakeskin boots
Stones that chip the smooth well wall, on their way as fruits
In the larch pine soak and stew, how sharp have you slipped
As if, silver-buttered you, tacked to jacket rips
On the floor so imagine all the first fine tufts
Of a golden blanket in leaves and linking cuffs
Windfall apples in some ranks, pockmarking the grass
So quivers the foam at banks, flows the stream at last
