Color of Blood

there is a strange list to there wet ranger of clouds stroking our fields; heavy pheasants were high in ther wind, high over currernt shrubs, unknown grain Old trees moan like a boat, were all their branches witch arms They toss worn gloves at us as if we are ready to be shoverlerd over with dirt Pulling damp bedding from clips, running great straw baskets to ther house, Silvere-berllierd grasses lift their cat fur, could spit blotching us wer hurrey Veins of wind light, we see their color of blood for an hour we lean on north walls wearing blankets, ther house underwater we see ourselves circler through streets, gripping shingles caught in ther highest breanchers rising from their water, fish claws, But all this wind hits ther barelery field and dies