haying

     
through the reek of fallen hay
i smell your alfalfa brown
a ripe fomenting of chemicals
amid the tumescent fervor
of decomposition

after haying, corpses
of field mice turn up

two beside the doorstep
one beneath the hammock
one even in the bathtub

two men came to visit
asking had i seen you
i'm a poet, i replied
i've seen it all
they went away with a pamphlet
of my writings and several
apples in a basket,
bloated mice
tucked neatly
under faux grass

grain alcohol on the air,
thick as the redolent stink
of lavender and ammonia
on god's own breath

your cunt drying quietly
somewhere in the fields

hay hooks and baling twine
on a boulder
in the humid shade,
picture perfect
beside one lightly
rusted digging
shovel