the teeth of your black ditch are sweet like the rest of the thin lipped sharp hipped fierce things that animals show white like the laughter of smoke in the chest long after the brightness of the fields teeth go the child mother yells in vi lent madness but your tight skin confessed not a vein in your chest and the way that your breast did hang low animals need animals before the winter comes the metal air swarms across those plains my long necked freckle specked heavy chested trust invested sows her breath into my chest and hums now what kind of county line holds her remains your grey frame in winter is delicately hued the eyes are so wearisome the greens have all blued and what could it mean that they once were so green and now they re just starving for food and i am hungry too for you 2008 matthew milia