Song of Myself

I am a stubborn ox dreaming

of rain as the drover's fingers drum

around my eyes. But no: the wet

hum of flies distracted me,

and now the plow has drifted from

the line I meant to follow. See

where the damp leather of the reins

has worn the callus on my left

forefinger raw? Or was it the dry,

ash handle of my hoe? I can hear

the steel head singing as it strikes

rocky ground, the fresh-turned earth

swallowing showers of sparks. The tip

of my tongue goes dry. I touch my lips

to the soil as I once touched you, here

and there. A single knot of dirt

crumbles slowly in my mouth

with the taste of sweet butter dripping

from your thumb. This ground will raise

a heavy crop. I am the wheat

that flowed around your waist like water.

I am that lonely knot of earth.