Not that bent field stone, slick with dew, jasmine,
chicory — there are gods of those fields, scant
hairy things who watch you squat and piss in
the green flax. I wish to know what the ant
and the bee see in such jewel-weed. Not
that plush spot plump between your collar bones.
Not bone or field stone, not odd god, fleshpot
or urge (there is always an urge) that groans
thickset, clover seed to plant root in you.
Open your mouth. Root seed and suck, inhale.
Simple as not gagging. The way you pass
through a pallid field turned bronze. What shall spew
from me shall dribble down your chin, a pale
trail, a craving, splash, dew-dropping the grass.