I went this morning, this
white arc of year now nearly come whole here,
again to seek those sites
of digging and great-armed construction crews
building among their sweats
the stuff of days, the suns, the weights in breath.

So that last year’s raw field,
one summer’s loam exposed into the light,
lies covered and secure
against the grasses and the aching heat,
and this year’s building breaks
out to the air another field’s wormed heart,
another summer’s earth.