For China, vein of smoky, sliding seas, I owe each stripe or bar that makes the mesh, The kiss that flies from mouth to mouthing bees. For Pluto, god of red disease and flesh, I owe the spit and slop of gasping toads, The hearts of marble, cut and shining fresh. To bloody, waxy peel of weeping roads, I owe each blade of grass a cry of thirst, A gloppy, spitting shriek that chokes the codes. For Flora, plant who lives by dying first, I owe the female thought of skin and bone, The mammal heart that pumps my jerking birth.