The teeth of your black ditch are sweet like the restnOf the thin-lipped, sharp-hippednFierce things that animals shownWhite like the laughter of smoke in the chestnLong afternThe brightness of the fields' teeth gonThe child-mother yells in vi'lent madnessnBut your tight skin confessed not a vein in your chestnAnd the way that your breast did hang lownnAnimals need animals before the winter comesnThe metal air swarms across those plainsnMy long-necked, freckle-specked, heavy-chested, trust-invested sows her nbreath into my chest and humsnNow what kind of county linenHolds her remainsnnYour grey frame in winter is delicately huednThe eyes are so wearisomenThe greens have all bluednAnd what could it meannThat they once were so greennAnd now they're just starving for foodnAnd I am hungry toonFor younn©2008 Matthew Milia