Your Heart, big and round;
You make me think of drinking.
Your breast obscures the sweetest tomato,
and I want all the juice.

You are bright on my face,
red. I lick your spills.
Not even one drop falls to waste
on the dying earth.

Beat like a drum, little muscle.
Pump like a child's legs
driving momentum on a swing set.

Hunger colors me mad.

Thin ribs wrap the prize,
Cellophane, no- Silk, beyond.
The wind is warning you with its wailing.
This season of water will weave you away.

It's the Season for Graves Cracking: The 2006 Quest for Fear

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