the winter anthology
Vol. 1
Vuyelwa Carlin
all our bones,
all our dust
The corn is cut;
little bones emerge in late-
lit, long-lit
fields: in what far
future the white
brittle points, patterns,
of us? You are deep
clay, companion
of rainy
furrow-creepers—dusts,
delicate sockets, curlers
in seed: will we
lace (your lost, stocky
fingers!) these heartwoods?