I am a stubborn ox dreaming

    of rain as the drover's fingers drum

    around my eyes. But no： the wet

    hum of flies distracted me，

    and now the plow has drifted from

    the line I meant to follow. See

    where the damp leather of the reins

    has worn the callus on my left

    forefinger raw？ Or was it the dry，

    ash handle of my hoe？ I can hear

    the steel head singing as it strikes

    rocky ground， the fresh-turned earth

    swallowing showers of sparks. The tip

    of my tongue goes dry. I touch my lips

    to the soil as I once touched you， here

    and there. A single knot of dirt

    crumbles slowly in my mouth

    with the taste of sweet butter dripping

    from your thumb. This ground will raise

    a heavy crop. I am the wheat

    that flowed around your waist like water.

    I am that lonely knot of earth.