PASTURE
My hammocked tongue slides
onto your lapgrass listen
to the shadows buckling.
If I found you a stomach
would you fork the wind
pangs? If in the dark I would eat
don’t look at me. Bombilate
like you are a slantwise
cube hovering over
a mountain. Would you spin in shades
rippling onto your peaks
you vociferous golden lark? Into
my hoof I want to salivate
on the loose
stringed fibers. You sun
in a naked day
let me be a heuristic mime.
Insert the inert follicles
pulsing through a boat. Pull
the wolf to my eyes string
cumbered splinters.
I could gnaw
I could suckle
your ankles.
Dismember the apostrophe.
I am here. I am meadow.
To bleed shrill
the mud full of iron.
I would plant my feet plume
a clunky trough. Like trees weep
I smell your jaw.
Do you sit linted
as shadows chase after revenants?
If teeth could be hungry
as a heart mirrors
would be transparently reflective.
As a meadow I am susceptible
and you could picnic beyond
a melting sky. I try to skew more
vastly when you peel like storms
of glass but there is only so much
I occupy like a compass. Bloating
with love windows
my path in all directions
the deer would become bitter.
If you rip the parts
take my blooming bones.
The raspy tractor echoes
the dreams wrapped around
each rib. When the wind yawps
if I gave you a sickle
would you tickle my ear?
