say the great square bales of hay
floating across the summer fields, butter-

yellow, toast
with jam and marmite

before the pink sky unfolds
to reveal this page, the fellows in their gnat-black gowns
like bats in the appeasing dark, luminous lot
I give up for you, long gash, my blueish asp, glass
steeple, speak, you
who give the beasts their dreams, and me
my “I,” superfluous
to my reflection in the glass, the voice of a girl
in the tall grasses, the witch
in the fig tree, the gale across
the leys. To have a clue, someone has
to hurt you, girl/crow, late
one who seeks—What? Know where
to find me? My trace in the water
is what you are. The river black as a razor
and still as fate, two Egyptian geese
waiting for us at the bank. What can’t I write
if I don’t try, who can’t I love
if I don’t—? DO IT! If I did it
again, again I would choose it. If I had it
again, again I would lose it, you
standing there at the door. I saw it marked
like blood in the Cam, like I took a blade
to the permanence lamb, I got down on my knees
at the devil’s command. God knows, babe,
I’ll cheat who I can. You are who I am.