It’s wanting silver bullets in your heart, It’s not so happy, but it’s pretty sweet, I’ve got to go.” She passed her narrow hands Over her body once, half-wonderingly.

“Divide this transitory and temporal flesh Into twelve ears of red and yellow corn And plant each ear beside a different stream. Yet, in the summer, when the harvesters Come with their carts, the grain shall change again And turn into a woman’s body again And walk across a heap of sickle-blades To find the naked body of its love.”