From the Fishouse

When I plant the seeds,
I pack the dirt back hard.

When the garden comes up,
I spit on the greenest leaf.

When the tree bears fruit, black thread
through its branches frightens

the birds,
keeps them away.

Against hail: verbena.
Against lightning: laurel.

I’ve got nothing against the moon,
the moon stays in the sky,

nothing against the wind,
the wind can be kind,

but against your ardor,
O surrogate of the air—

I’ve got apples, a seckle pear,
the knife left gleaming here.

To cut them open,
as you do us—

and peer inside them,
as you do us—

O moth, O seed, O spider, O worm—
As you do us.