Wrap me in rain,
give me cool comfort like the
swirling of air from a fan over my legs
at bedtime so noxious and sanctimonious.
What strange aliens wait in the field behind the house,
gaudy in their multitudinous space ships?
Give me sweet succor and lay me down
in the pumpkin patch.
Let me grow vines to root me in place.
There is no sense in running.
And when the aliens come,
let their teeth already be sharpened,
their hands quick.