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.