Thud, thud, all the sores go blind,
and over the basket of pears hover
brief addicted fruitflies.
The bruises on the pears are also blind.
The barn is blue—as far
from the Mediterranean as possible.
You’d think the residents, serious here—each one
scattered lonely as a cow-pie—you’d think:
blood-in-the-rafters. . . .But if you listen,
both ears, close, you’ll hear a plow parting
earth; closer, some worms unburied
nervous. The chirpers are happy,
the humans go about jobs—in barn,
field, or house—healing,
unhealing, and sky again
is admitted to the dumb-lovely dirt
turned over and over, turning
its worn yawn wide: breathing, nearly alert.