All our days left on earth,
all our dead friends
will hold us like a handful
of baby birds;

oh it's that weight that I'll carry
us I'm thinking of.
So sweet, at first blood,
all of the ants come.

We'll eat dirty
white hearts
on the path
to the dascha.

And if we're wasps
dreaming winter
under the sun
don't go bury all of your love.