And as we move through the corn and crush it down like clothing full of dust the corn doesn’t sing between our toes but dries a wishing bridge from our dirty hymnal, the dark spine warped in spring, left to ruin, left useful in the sun. When I go to sleep with this music coming through my head like soft fields of ribbon you say I AM NOT MADE ONLY OF MUSIC SCALES, OF HAIR. And when all the trucks are quick rust we will still wish to sing and we will still not know how to choke and read the notes the corn has left for us to drown and harmonize.
