String after string mark the rows
where rake and I must pull.
What if I find a knot. What if
I am caught, my rake beating
like a bird wing against the earth.
Evening. I empty the last bucket
of blueberry. Follow the string
back to the barren. Enough, I think,
enough of following the string.
Else life is nothing more than a thread.
They need a raker. So here I am.
After all, the barren is home.
I need the memory of string
on my thumb. I need the chaff,
the skein of so much blue on my tongue.