Hey hay sandpaper
The trees are blowing the wind away;
the gutters speak of last year's purchases,
and I am truly unable to stay
in this random rocky soda bay.
This morning directions may come in droves
to take me somewhere that tractors can't go
where they and us, in crevices and coves,
forget about following patterns
(and mold.)
The mother sitting under the well
had left through a one-eared forest.
A pity that she couldn't spell
or speak-spit the threads she had for us.
It took her time and a little care
to be blinder than she needed,
but bread is what the people ate there
so she gave them grain and some of her hair.
This sentiment, I am afraid,
comes from those who have two toes
and ten eyes, to see that profit made
depends on where the tractor goes.
Still, sometimes on a picnic day,
when they let us out of jail,
and cut all of our brains away,
we're able, I’m sure, to bale the hay.