I stuck a sword in my sun’s bubble,
so he could watch the cornfield.
His orb was not perfect.
Or my eye did not see perfectly...
Who the hull did it?
Look!
Corners in my perfect cornfield.
I am not afraid of extraterrestrials.
I am not afraid of worms, but mornings scare me.

The bubble bubbles in my orb.
The perfect corn in the imperfect field.

They ask me about meals...
Sword melted in White; like the white milk…
The cows hover around, silent, strong.
The field listens the earth:
steps in the grass—butter...
And they sing in its ear, halfwet, halflie, halfgentle
like her index caressing the mud,
the smell of regurgitated grass:
not enough...not enough...not enough...
More and more.

My golden corn.

Sun! My son! I was stupid.
I bought the sword for my knot.
The bubble bubbles...
Take care of them!

The corn is poisoned.