Secret garden, wild grassland and brambles;
I’ve strayed between the highlands of your wilds,
seeking your sweet fruit in bittersweet curls.
Virgin woods? whatever, nothing defiles
you more than a dry spell when husk thorns reign.
The sun burns through your bush, dries your puddles,
and your poor untasted fruit prays for rain.
I’ve been among poppies, tasted thistles,
slept with foxtail. Like the horny goat, weeds
are no problem. Your curls part at my kiss.
Your red chaparral flushes green. Big flood
coming. You are, too. My tongue tweaks and kneads
your clit. First you dew my face, then you mist,
gush and geyser, drenching like sticky blood.