The children believed in me.
And because they believed
I rose in the air,
I crowed like a rooster
with my name in my mouth
warm with the farmyard’s filth.
And when I was the woodpile I sang
with sap going through me
and when I was the brook
I went head over heels
and when I was the fences
I ran the length of the horizon
and when I was the farmhouse
I creaked in my own heat.

Then I was the stubble in the fields
putting my eyes out. I was the sheep
crying to be near one another.
I was the sheep in the night
and I was the light catching
their eyes, hillside on their backs.

And I was a cart rumbling
with road, sunrise in front of me,
sunrise behind. I was a day’s journey
with sunset on either side.
I could easily become bells,
become wheat saying its thousands
of names. I could easily become
cut earth and water running out of cut earth;
swaying fire of haystack, black smoke
and blue heat, the shape of my feet
in old leather boots, footsteps
on the stairs. The children believed
and I rose in the air.
The children believed
and I held out my arms
and I opened my mouth.