Thousand names for flesh and its answering
silence. Fold into you. Like so. Like so.

A child’s cry. Of pain and of pleasuring;
but not a cry, no foal’s moan that I know,

no lamb. No body turned to face the trees.
Autumn branches, immaculate muscles

grinding, we all grind but nothing will please.
Nothing that I can touch. Leaves stripped. Mongrel’s

hour. Let the grass weep in my image. Frown
as I swallow down what you did not do.

Here are the names that I give. Grave robber;
they dug and they took. You heard my scream down

in the field, you heard my bleating. But you
never replied; never raised a finger.