In a sweater poorly knit, and an unsespecting smile, little Moses drifts downstream in the Nile. A fumbling reply, an awkward rigid laugh and I'm carried helpless by my floating basket raft. You're a flavor in my mind, back and forth between, sweeter than any wine as bitter as mustard greens. And it's light and dark as honeydew and pumpernickel bread, the trap I set for you seems to have caught my leg instead.

Go plow some other field, try and forget my name, we'll see what harvest yields supposing I do the same. I planted rows of peas by the first week of July should've came up to my knees but they were maybe ankle high. Take the fingers from your flute, weave your colored yarns. Boil down the fruit to preserves in mason jars. And the books are over due, and the goats are underfed, the trap I set for you seems to have caught my leg instead.

You're a door without a key, a field without a fence. You made a holy fool of me and I've thanked you ever since, but she'd come circling back, we'll end where we begun, like two pennies on the train tracks, train crushed into one.

But if I'm a crown without a king, if I'm a broken open seed If I come without a thing, then I come with all I need. No boat out in the blue, no place to rest your head, the trap I set for you seems to have caught my leg instead.