Writ in a country calendar, drawn from
the waking radish, his ink, drawn from his tubular hairs.
The frames on the days, which fill with rain.
Oh rushling calculation, spurt,
from balding flower, come proud-speckle fruit,
come bruit of sugar-narcissa’s trump—
Oh! You winking families, with whips,
four inches, more—and finger-thick;
you tumbling droops of blasted quince,
and quailing fingernail moth, that flaps
black cymbals to wing, ascends at his ease
from slit sacks of black flour.
-2004
