What hectare, what crop, what
packet of seed and parcel of land?
Nothing I have bequeaths itself
so fully, involuntarily.
Devoted to the hours, milk
drips from dusky teats
into each sick and reddened eye.
My jewel, my luminous one: I wrote
to you until the candles blinked
into a helix of flame that turned
in the cold, in the heat.
In response to Via Negativa: Foolscap.