I would wield a large pair of scissors

two eyes, two holes big enough for his fingers and send him back to fields first burnt. And still. In the showy sun and what dust on our hands, we ran them diagonal through stiff white wheat. To be here shearing the last stalks off and polishing and pocketing all stones. The dogs are almost upon us. They’re closing in the resemblance of fields and dark in that I finish wishing. It's very dark in the small kitchen. I would slip my hands underneath the new world and ask if snow is instead. If this is what we said about snow.