Il faut cultiver notre jardin, but they keep dehydrating my jardin for shipping off to Fernley, Nevada, or wherever fond hopes are warehoused.
Little wheels came rumbling
On a little cloud of tar
And the skull-and-bony driver
Said lad, are you going far
Said I wish I could go backwards
All the way back to the sun
Then I’d wrap my feet in golden sheets
When threshing time was done
Said the driver, oh my lovely,
Won’t you dive into the tar
And the little wheels went tumbling
Oh my little crowded car
R. and I enjoy singing the verse of “Gore in a Rut” together, but I think the video would give her wrong ideas about the farm.
R’s face in the sun is all contrasts, white with fringed dark sockets and a rose mouth. She gives me palmfuls of sand.