Within your arches, I am moon and corn.
Church where winter crows, church of souls
that wear shoes, church of birds playing hopscotch.
My tribes and your thighs' rivers are one.
O altar of horses and sweat,
There were, my trumpet, at least seven directions between us,
the wolves exiled just east of your hair's allegories
and the western corner of your shoulder
where birds come with their sirens to celebrate
our corn's anniversary. How easily along the coast