A fraying rope has my friend
above the harvest
between two thin hands.
From the barrier of the hay loft
we toss our soda bottles
to the Rambler’s hood below.
Hard cherry candies
the desert of breakfast
we steal from the market,
save our drinks past
the phylloxera vineyards
back to the loft,
the demoted orchards.
Our heads tilt into the straw,
circle out the taste
with a view of the nests
century-bare plum trees hold.
I tell her about the bulls
touched on their anuses
by electric prods,
stimulating them
into a donation
later given to the cows.
She says guys are all barbed wire
and dolls, and wants to be a
rancher
who lets her bulls fuck.
