And where have you come from, come from?
If indeed you were made before, then when and where was it,
quite?
I know a place where there are little
snails, out in a sunflower field, in little furrows there.
New ones, it seems, each day, each day there appear.
Each day, each day I cut a bit of sunflower and take it home.
Will Peter today notice these?
Out of what is something grown?
A hole here, a hole there.
I know a place where there are little souls,
out in the sunflower field, in little furrows.
There, new ones, it seems, each day, each day there appear.
An empty nest, where a sand crab makes home.
A cavern, where the never squid calls home.
A vase where the flowers fill a dark place, where
new lives done grown, done grown.
A hole here, a hole there.
And the Wendy girl is called to mend, to mend.
What is a pocket but a hole?
A home?
For the housewife who has grown, has grown,
the home is nothing but a hole.
The moon tonight is so full, so full of cradles outgrown.