Farmhand

A mule with fork and shovel breeds no honey
for spring-triggered girls to buzz around
though he wear overalls and hate his muscles.

Sweat marks name me, not the moth
that longs for perfume in white bells
and dusts love pollen after dark.

The cracked and aching heart
of my desire, plain on my face
as a smear of fresh-dug earth,

bleeds foolishly while sleight-of-hand
salesmen with instructed mirrors
make me pay for what I see.

So sober I, tied to my stake,
chew the grass within my circle
and shake my long ears at the moon.