Kingdom

Six-fingered pitchfork, god-speed;I've got a field fallow & have you seenmy horses? They're hungry.Death is not a state. It is a propertylike the smell of peaches on youror my skin. The little book I weararound my neck is gold-filled,mostly brass. It takes an open palmto lift the hay, the hair in sunlight.The tremble of one little fingercan make a man a god. The needleenters the skin anywhere,but the only way through the eyeis pulling the thread with the tongue.