I am open, in the field.
I offer the hail my belly,
a thinly lidded eye, a curve
of arched neck.
In the air, the trill
of a lark’s song, its voice—
a fountain, bubbles in darkness.
I wait for the sin. It’s coming.
I am open, in the field.
I offer the hail my belly,
a thinly lidded eye, a curve
of arched neck.
In the air, the trill
of a lark’s song, its voice—
a fountain, bubbles in darkness.
I wait for the sin. It’s coming.