A work we slew this for: bringing it out of it, the little cotton-piece this bind—if he can watch us chore him afar and how there he is him. Big bright. Holy-rolly. Too crimson from cot to dry brook, yet we carry down where he has no sleep. Cranky with our touching. Cornmeal doesn’t warm up, makes us tender to his slights. A good chance will change him worse instead of being raised in our apron. It needs whisking, we shout. It craves an egg! Slipperiest fish they all say. Morning starts to demand lots from us. He means pushing away to collect himself, we suppose. Thinking. Pointing over there, that far ground—that’s maybe okay for a well. Must get digging through lean tight deep. Shame’s in the needing is what he teaches. He shows us tugging any earth. Eats a mouthful. Looks like we got his trust. He has sleep. We cut his apron bows away miles into wilderness. There are no eggs answering. So who hears our faith to return? stays this silent pace? When he knows, when bawling will we come back. His rags are whole-bound again. He won’t talk much with a mouthful. And believe his getting-on sense should we strike water so that he may gentler us. Can’t charm forever by smile, for wanting certainty.
All Gall Is Divided