no vetch around for seasons, the pinked majority
of the feather reed, buffed and white-tipped, capped
the road’s rim while droves of cows
roamed grim through long since-yellowed stalks
stiff from months of no feed, nothing to yield
but silks sutured to rot, pale threads
I enlisted your braiding and dank fodder we’d
have smelled had the weather permitted.
O sweet Louise, do sing to me
of one burning branch in some wild brush
flapping its carmine leaves.
O holy roller, come roll on me
and one hundred thirteen red-winged blackbirds I counted
before giving up, squat atop barbed wire fence posts
and probably somewhere wild
hens croaked for their clutches in thicket.
I am but a yearling at the bosom of spring
I’d have crooned before the thickest month
your mouth curved right off the edge of your jaw.