A good name pitched into the soil. 



Tear the land with the shovel, with the spade, with the 
towel, with the hand, and cache this crown in a mount 
of wet winter earth.



A sole display for our troubles endured. Neither stone, 
nor post, nor flower shall serve or burden the beholder 
with ornament or reminder. 



And the neighbors do protest, "You'll reap no greater 
harvest." 



But it's never for the profit of the crop nor the grace 
clay ditch. 



To shed all supposition and disappointment I sow these 
seeds of my desired end. 



To be nameless and faceless, oh what a weightless 
blessing to receive. 



We give ourselves the small attempts to share with you 
our souls, but if she doesn't trust anybody I hope no 
one ever trusts her again.



Waiting too long to say what you mean and give looks 
their intentions. 



Compact fire into undesired space will only explode.