Kim Triedman

The crows, they
circle, dragging their
wretched shadows, and
light tiptoes
as day trips into moon
and fields sprawl
in both directions,
bleached; fallow;
studded with want.
Look here,

I am the thirst;
I am the stubble in the field.
Lull me,
I am wanting.
Sink your fingers deep
and fondle my seed.

Coax me.
Wet me.
Color me wheat.

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