Just a few minutes after eleven, / and I won't be sorry until sunset, / when you have chased the horizon / into a black laugh and unblinking sleep. / My wishes scatter infinitive verbs, / cast to your feet like bruised wedding petals, / to your eyes looking, looking for the herd, / afraid that you girls—you woman, / you—have strayed too far on legs too weak. / What will we two knead? The flour and leaven, / in a kitchen where the sun rays no debt, / where we are not (s)old, and we are not burned. / You girls. You. What happens if you don't turn?