Ars Agraria

Aching beneath you in the dying spring light entered and entering each other’s dusk the whole history of shadows on each other’s backs playing tumbleweeds as if we were but endless prairies, sprawled with lichen, cacti, greening the brown body of the land in finger trails of never being content with only this thrash of flesh on flesh but with clouds overhead, yes, whiter than your light-snatched thighs, and refusing the dark.