there is an ocean raging behind your teeth
thundering waves and howling storms
my mouth is the streams drying in the pastureland
no, no—it’s no good
the salt and rage
I open my mouth to the sky
the breeze was cool—no hint of rain
winter left the grass heavy with seed
the wind rustles among them
and I—lonely steward—must follow the wind
when it scatters the seeds
I will nibble their oily shells
this is the trick to planting in dry country
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