The shed behind the barn behind the red cottage I wait
for her in the fescue grass the rye I hear it grow over me
Wait for my friends in the distance on fire their full heads
of rust (I love how the clothing drips off them I hear myself say)
If the beekeeper doesn’ t come chasing behind with a hatchet
I’ ll wait behind Cobb’ s barn watching the distant houses
She will come down this road my shadow is paving for her
a stalk of honey and the rye grass grows from her arms
(She was raised in these hills looking down on Elk Creek)
and behind her the bluegrass it’ s reaching to touch her ankle