If she be ancient as me,

Would we hold a contest

Up and out inside our hands,

Soft as velvet

But biting in other ways?

She might smart me,

Smite me like the weeds

In her ancient red garden.

They’re always crying out

To God, I guess.

But they don’t know,

Know they don’t,

That their god is the one

Who is old like me,

With velvet skin

And mud-stained rain boots.

So throw my head into a bag

And carry it with you to the shore

Where the water is allowed

To make such loud noises,

Sighing with the release

Of our expectations.

I want to smell the air there,

But all I can get is the flour

That used to be in the bag.

And all I can hear

Is a huffing,

A puffing.