Between the thinking hill and the tame hill
The night cattle foraging against the hedge
And the grey heads of the weeds are broken
The map of love molded out of mud
The winds' strokes denting the flat rivers surface
You took off you're summer dress
Shaped you're arms like Yeats's swan
Dived into the waters
I slipped into the ripple of your wake

We lay in the loving shadows of my ghost
The smell of buttermilk on your breath
Your lips left a red cracked heart at my throat
The twist of your limbs making loving longer
The Buick's tracks  in the thigh high grass field
Your voice doubled upward and downward
I'm the back seat of the Buick with the heater on