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I’LL NEVER BE YOUR MAGGIE MAY
Sleatswetter by it bytfabryk, wytljocht
at ik moarns wekker waard en it seach.

De romten dy’t mar net ôfsletten rekken,
dûzeljende noaten op ’e westerstoarmen.

Net de toarst net de honger net hy net
doe’t ik de heale moannen skjinhimmele.

Mar it sleatswetter, as de reindrippen
en reade surch stoffich by it spoar del.
I’LL NEVER BE YOUR MAGGIE MAY
Ditchwater by the refinery, white light
when I woke in the morning and saw it.

The spaces that never quite got filled,
notes whirling on strong westerly winds.

Not thirst not hunger not him not when
I had scrubbed the half moons clean.

But ditchwater, like raindrops and red
sorrel, dusty beside the railroad track.