My voice no more than a loon;
I sit on my haunches. Blisters on my tongue
come to a boil from parts the sun wore all day.
Sunflowers aren’t pretty after dark;
their doll heads bob. But their stems
offer the rain a wall to lean on.
Beetles pop against my boot heels.
I sink back into the earth’s silo,
pray the only Psalm I can remember.