I want you to fuck me in the field with the flowers
Press me against the
corn flower - red clover - sweet alyssum
They whistle before telling us a lie.
We’ve grown weary of Greats.
We’re almost dead, almost alive.
We wish for the energy to daydream.
America’s sticky Grapes of wrath,
fingers, linger, coddled by broken
tracing constraints thumbs, yearn
it had to do with units
of time of squares of dollars
of birth orders of birds migrating