Her green eyes brown
with fatigue, she pulls
her robe of finches
closer, but

it flaps and shreds
in the wind. When
I hold her, leaves
crackle where

her breasts should be,
and her hazy kiss
tastes of smoke.
"Sheaves of me,"

she murmurs. "These
I give you to feed
the earth." I lay her
gently against

a tree, see
her beauty molder
as cold rain
begins to fall.