Variations on a theme by Niedecker

*

The handle of my moon

was blue. Think the pail
might have been granite.

Not enough to get me thru.

*

The iron sunflowers

at the front of my yard
died. The price of scrap

turned me blue.

*

The hair of corn is high.

I never paid attention
to the length of the grasses

sniffing at my feet.

*

Crows ca-caw in perfect

dactyls from the clothesline.
They stab me. My wounds

are blue. Too big to carry me
thru.