Harrowing

This world is harrowing, harrowing,

all harrow, as if harrow were what

the world is made of, what we are

made of, as if harrow were strings

to be strummed, tendons and veins

to be strummed, as if harrow

could be snapped between the teeth,

the word one letter from the white meal

inside our bones, the meal we could make

of ourselves, harrow, two letters

from the bird who might strum

with its beak what the body is made of,

what the world is made of, and in that

strumming become the song.