the sourest jewel,
a shimmering punishment
fooled by spring currants
garden of clay pots.
my blueberries must think bound
roots are natural
you know that story--
the grasshopper & the ant?
i think ants wrote it
all her little sons
return, pale flesh gone red.
dyed in other seas
fallen croplands
a young swamp tends to those plants
who know no farmer
it was on purpose
to fish, you must know the fish
this is my process