gray mole digging out, squints at
winter light; black grapes in the true
blood dilute in early rain

there’s a thing they say happens
every seven years or so
a return to quarry —

landless gleaners stomping out
the furrows; tangled in their hair
winged burrs, questions

— how the deadfall must be
— how the stones wrought

take my hand

who has the language right for every
change? and every thought let loose
in this threshing, this threshold