Let me count to the sum
of one and vanish, as so many

have vanished—Slowly,
lead me through pastures

by a bridle of snow. Don’t
let me eat the last groundfall pears.

Or fire. Or tomorrow evening’s
wind blazed by hoofprints,

the far field of trodden,
dead sunflowers, each circle

of shriveled gold petals
dropping in the dry urn of stars.