The equine and May
On the flatland was a field deep green had cute blue flowers
that tended to disappear at the end of spring.
The pasture was framed by purple poppies and no sheep
these infernal eating machines that graze a meadow
into a wasteland.
Stood in the middle of this succulence, the aroma was
overwhelming, I swooned. Sank down on my knees
buried my face in moist wondrousness and wished
I was a stallion.