Sunrays fall across the shoulders of fields like drenched locks, once again our bodies heavy with 

                 desire, and I wonder how gold enters the waving wheat.

You lick my wrist, the thin blue veins. Outside, the fields are bright like burning books, this 

                 Thursday hardened like last week's bread. Where does heat come from.

You laugh and wind the wet black bridle of my hair around your fist, as if between song and 

                 suffering there is only nimble weather, bodies wet

with meaning. Later, in sweat-soaked sheets, we eat chilled figs, their seedy hearts, and I worry 

                 about what lies on the other side

of survival. Babe. What comes after this.