All this green and blue-brown
pouring down on cows and somehow
smells like clover find their way
through ripe peaches and horses.
Her words like a horde of lunatics,
and flocks of large meadow-loving birds,
or beautifully brocade toreadors
pull her down into wheat-tall grasses,
holding on to her bright black savior
where sex is just another breeze
rippling the next field like a flag.
Lying deep in her crop circle
of scattered thoughts and garments
lives the true nakedness of her love,
and the damnedest things, herself,
her earth, and her whirlwind sky.
