Harvest

when the season was right for me
to be harvested so as to share my body
you were there, under the sky
with a stomach bigger than your bright blue eyes
but the rain never came
and the harvest was lost
you didn't want to leave
but you eventually grew tired of being starved
but you can't make it far with hands that are dried out to the bone
no you can't make it home on bread and water alone

its been so dry i've yet to see
anything green west of the mississippi
and i know when you were laid lateral
i could flee the fires in the skin above your clavical
but the safety you gave
went when you stood to walk away
now that you're vertical
i know that the heat will be worse
when you tell me that i can't stay
but i can't make it far with these hands dried out to the bone
no i can't make it home on bread and water alone
i can't make it far with these hands dried to the bone
no i already left you once on bread and water alone

i dont believe half of what people tell me
but when you say that you see
too much age in my eyes for the passage of time
since you silently loved me
i believe

corvallis, oregon
june 2006