if it’s after me,
then by god I will go before it,
pulling the cloths of heaven rosy
sheer and gauzy over my hips
and shoulders.  by god
going on through yellow fields

catching the fucking feathered seeds
in my hands and even
in my mouth.

I’m suddenly tired

of reaching each arm forward
with the curve of the mare’s tails or
the sprung arc of a petal:

I can release a spring and bend,
sweep my hand over the heads
of grasses,
be caught in the clothes of heaven and
earth, caught by the mouth

of the speaker the mouth
of the speaker.