I would weild a large pair of scissors (9)

two eyes, two holes big enough for his fingers and send him back to fields first burnt. And still. In the showy sun and what dust on our hands, we ran them diagonal through stiff white wheat. To be here shearing the last stalks off and polishing and pocketing all of the stones. Dogs are almost upon us. They’re closing in the resemblance of fields and dark in that I finish wishing. It's very dark in the small kitchen. I slip my hands underneath the new world. I ask if snow is instead. If this is what we said about snow.