I have never known a field as wild
as your heart. Or galloped or hardened
my breast in the sun. I call my own bluff
and bravado: what I apprehend needs
no apprehension; what I make, stands
undone. Here is my hand, soft, uncalloused.
Here, a lock of my mane. Now, I am afraid
and so I turn to the field. The flower
and red beetle and winter light. The cardinal
hen. Your pretty brown bird cutting the sky.