Besedila: Liz Durrett. Husk. Husk.

There?s a gulf at the edge of the yard
And the husk of a shed and a garden
It?s the virus that swells in the grass
It?s the ration that stays with the water

There?s a boy with his back to the porch
There?s a root in a jar on the floor
It?s the field that is tied to his ankle
It?s the fodder that sticks to the table

There?s the ghost of a beast in the woods
And the trace of a shell in the dirt
It?s the path to the place where he lay
It?s the look of a crow on the grave