Tax Time I wish to report blighted sites where silos stood One could grow a circular garden there If there were anyone here to plant it The barn hangs its perfect triangle On an invisible nail driven into the evening air When it collapses the triangle will still hang there This the hour mice cower in the mown pasture What are they afraid of? The owls only want to give them wings While death goes on picking white mulberries in the dark Which wouldn’t be a problem really If the bowl he was filling wasn’t yours