Would your Eyes close if I kissed you now,
Tell me how far away you are
amidst your unedited feelings.
I relax too much in this atmosphere,
its twenty-seven folds of dairy air
(that isn’t French, my mouse);
my blood is milk. I slosh when I walk.
I want to take your lovely head between my hands
and push it back
until your throat swans.
Give me a frisson, not a farm.
You have yet to be drawn out,
woman, from biology into myth.
Anyhow, what river nymph
would set foot in the scuzzy water trough?
The distance from here to the barn –
a remote, brown country –
is bereft of the finer scents of Love.
If you call your chicks,
will I involuntarily enter the yard?
No, I will not cheep, I will not
forage at your booted feet.
Love-lit and love-lorn,
the moon raises its sadly happy face
over Broxton hill. What does it see?
Lord have mustard on us all.