Wheat and Rye

Bristled brushes sweep and reach

From the black of fertile soil;

As the Queen of Space

drips dew and grace

The beastly blood begins to boil.

His longing is a fire here

In the midst of midnight moon;

Sustained by grain and rolled aflame

In tryst of calls and croons.

Flowers nigh, the sweat it drips

As sinews strain rigid and right;

Loosing the grips, he begets those lips

Aplomb the hues of last hour’s light.

Pregnant now, the sable earth,

the seeds of his need sowed deep;

Bitter and sweet the rye and wheat

Where woe to sustain that sleep.