She is blue white blue white
In a Breton shirt feeling herself
Without touching herself
In the early morning breeze
The old crow moans above her head
A black alarm clock always on
She reads her book
Reads a line and looks at the field
Reads a line and looks at the field
Drinks her gin to take the swelling down
The undulating field that breathes
Like a spotless plum filled with worms
It is not until you take the first bite
Then you know and can tell
