Seven Blessings

Let's go somewhere, maybe take a taxi

to where the field meets the orchard in vines,

and we'll try to find where the blackberries, 

who have no winter, cast blessings,

and the sky rides the locomotive,

whistling to you, whistling while the birds hush.

Come, and we'll steal the beekeeper's hive,

which hadn't he always intended for us?

Fruit crate hives in elevator buildings,

where the window glass is rolled of honey,

where we will tablecloth the linseed sun,

and pull out the benches and shed our keys,

and share equally between us one sky, once seen.