I look down the length of myself,
chin on collarbone:
this bosom, a stippled twin-tipped fold --
where in their season foals nuzzle and whinny.
Phototropic roofpeaks point up
to follow Apollo's chariot across heaven
'til shadows urge them down,
crossing fertile,
then infertile fields.
Beyond, the belly's main house
pale and steepled,
vital stuff in the attic,
light poked through
like an afterthought.
In this shot the foliage shows reversed:
in mine the pubic tangle
hedges lower,
a nether ridge
on the far side of hillocks
where thorns of light play fierce
in vines of black berry.
And cocked, aiming forward
my bleached female toe points the way I go:
what I have to go on
strains forth, a tiny roof yearned out
a nail, a cap, a foreskin,
a foot or inch of portable penis,
whatever edges me beyond the pasture,
beyond myself
into the blue.