My mind is a trick-seed sprouting in me
Runners wide run in rich but shallow soil
Each birthing things that were not meant to be
Deserted, parched they die as I recoil
A false womb am I and guilty tears shed
Over false dreams buried in open graves
Who will come to avenge the wanton dead
The miscarriages flow in scarlet waves
‘Had you but fed us,’ each cries out, ‘you could
Now reap.’ As weeds they rise from their dark holes
And invading, choking out new crops would
Paralyze this befuddled, barren soul
Who can supplant the worming roots, their cry
And fate other than death my dreams supply?