We left the others,
wandered in dark fields
after harvest
wanting solitude
and each other

cold spinster sweat,
the warmth of your
willing mouth
in the damp black night,
the smell of fresh cut corn,
pumpkin,

a moist godlessness
that comes pagan from
the give of the
brown earth below,

no moon, just touch,
the moist fear of your eyes
the only discernible sight.


�2005 by Craig Kirchner