Things near at hand | Jacket2

old ladies lie down under the frost: truly, they are sleeping.

All morning they were taking out the indoor plants in deep winter and they thrust their hands into the earth they spoke of a forest wheat that cleanses the stomach > of horses (they spoke,
softly) we are women of
wheat and ablutions they will not be able to diminish us;
the two birds that are on the way, they are suspended, a few moments in the sky, they need us.

We are, after all, women of ablutions: of no stature.

They dug, two flowerbeds in a cross: they speak, laying down conditions.
Without our hands in the garden-beds nothing
will germinate again no one > will see our pastures in
the depths of the wells whoever
goes down will have their clothes soaked in the scarlet
must secreted by the
mushrooms' disease; they
will drown.

Since they stand forth, burning phosphorus: our children.

Enormous, in their rocking chairs: fires in the sky
(the sea sparkle's
disorientation in the waters is now
purple) the whistling of three grebe,

We I'm small.

I'm not going to do it.
they're not going to come and settle in our house they will not be nest in the two aspen in the yard nothing will be and they will be their immemorial leaves > and from the catkins will burst forth the spark
paper fodder on the wet-nurse's breasts.

They whistle shrilly, let them whistle: I hear, on the roof < br> against the patio's red floor
buckets moving with large new pans

The candle, in their eyes: a gnat (birds) in the pockets of their agave overcoats.

Wearing a toga, with a hood: they look, where to dig. Under the
frost, the thick scrub of the flowering begonias makes us drowsy from my
tunic to mushroom
sprouts (I hear) (flower of the breeze, a shrill < br> whistle) the eaves
blooming the
of the old women on the cornice.

The old ladies lie down under the frost: they really sleep, they sleep. the morning they were pulling the plants of the interior, they were kneeling in the middle of the winter, the hands on the earth spoke of a wheat
forest that cleans the stomach of the chivalry
(they spoke, quietly)
we are women of wheat and ablution we will not be able to melt; the two birds that when crossing were suspended for a few moments, they need us.

Well we are ablution, women: without stature.

They dug , two beds in cross: they speak, stipulating. Nothing
will re-germinate without our hands in the garden beds
no one will see our grasslands in the bottom of the cisterns that descend and soak up the clothes with the scar
that secretes the disease of the fungi;
and they will be flooded.

Since they are evidence, phosphorus: our children.

Huge, in their rocking chairs: and I among them hear I name the fires of the height
(purple is now the
disorientation of the noctiluca in the seas)
the croaking of the three
somormujas, frightened.

We put on foot, I am small.

They pull out their buckets carpentry brushes, they will cut the tree from the backyard: we laughed; no
will come to settle in our house will not nest in the two
tremors of the yard nothing will gnaw
its immemorial leaves and of the aments will arise the sliver
paper the fodder in the breasts of the nurse.

I hear, dropping the bungs: I gather among the men their bare hands in the aprons, obedient; (jubilation, dense) (jubilation,

The candle, in their eyes: midge (birds) in the pockets of their henequen coats.

Lawyers, capirote: look, dig. Under the rime,
the thick weed of the begonias in bloom
The drowsy of my robes
the mushroom sprouts
(the flower of the air, grazna)
in flower eaves
stem of the elderly
on the ledge.

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