in dreams that have become anathema
I crave the being of me for you:
I could be pretty &
clean, could be the anthem
of your desire, the rising pulse of you.
what I lose to the taste of you,
the quiet where now is
a wide grassland rippling with grasp.
you mar me, mark me, spread me
pale against an orange sunset.
here in my prairie
you are my lost shepherd, you are
my return to herd, my claimant.
sing me smooth:
my million wheat-heads tilt
to listen, the buds of me ripe and heavy
in the pressure of your mouth.
silence, later, becomes a lack.
I wish for weather, craving thunder
and a pale green sky above my earth.