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.

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