Our yield is now, this moment
is what will eventually
become of us, our only harvest
is the one we’re gathering.
Water is drawn by the one
with the well. Whoever has lungs
will breathe in and out. Whoever
has the horse will ride into town.
Everything is nothing but horns
honking at death, and numbers
attacking numbers. An apricot
jam smear on the table knife.
Everything is nothing but almonds
divided by almonds, and grass blades
savoring our shadow’s champagne.
Why does everyone seek refuge elsewhere?
Whoever has the orange will peel the skin.
Whoever has a thread will feed the needle.
Our only voice is what we speak, collect
the crop, our yield is now, this moment
is what will eventually become of us.