*

What a strange crop :the smell

spread out the way this mud is plowed

already warmed by the descent

 

used to one, one more, one more

though you are circling it

with your mouth left open

 

holding nothing, moving nothing

nothing but this dirt

no longer thirsty, confident

 

--what struggles here is the rain

still on the ground, thinning out

as lakes, at most as lips and distances

 

--here you’ve got to bend

to get a closer grip, pull up

this hillside broken loose

 

and lean into where this water takes you

handcuffed, smashed against the rocks

and on your knees more kisses.

 

>