One girl, her thoughts swayed slowly in her mind like long-threaded water grasses in a shallow brook, themselves like the hair of sunken buried maidens green but undying. and two friends, one whose thoughts were a Swiss watch of gears and wheels each jointing every other into frenzied activity at the slightest impetus, all constantly straining against inertia; the other whose thoughts were a single mill-wheel churning chaff from wheat in some dark and burdensome unyielding place in his chest, neverendingly, though his very children might be thrown in among the raw undivided stalks of thought and themselves pulverized.

the frightened weather wakes me from a warm night to a cold morning, no fruit on the bough and all fields low to the ground out of season or scorched and cast down, split open, their darkness and sweetness bared to a burning sun making improvised wives out of all crops in the dry dirt of a forsaken latitude.