Epithalamion: Agri-Business

We wouldn’t want love for less than it’s cost us to this point: a dream dress ruined in going across the grain. Fits thin, and soon we’re witness to seasons and fields we define. As sowing goes, this thread of hands will till the knowing, and as we go, following the wrong order, sow-till, sow-till, till crows envy our growing autonomy. Days called long will be shorter. In the finger, a glass shard plays the reporter, kisses the medic, cotton could be a brocade vice. Niceties are always nice, gifts like mortar for a house we’ve already built. So our eyes being green and mongrel, good lines we’ve drawn, we keep them so close, our rows. We understand.

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