As I drive through farm country, a damp reek brewing by the roadway hits me. Manure, cut grass, honeysuckle, spearmint. The air feels light as rusk. I want to lie down in the newly turned earth: this heavy figure amid the wheat-chaff and the chicory, while sunlight creeps up a mountainside off in the distant whelm of colour. Each cemetery, flanked by poplars, looks ready to play as a chess set. A dozen washloads blow on the line, sock lanterns ablaze, towles bellied like a schooner's spinnaker. In a dogwood's petalled salon, bees leave their pollen footprints as calling cards. The occasional samba of a dragonfly tightens the puffy-lidded dusk. Clouds being to curdle overhead. And I want to lie down with you here again in this boggy dirt, our legs rubbing like locusts'. I want you here with the scallions, sweet in the night air, to lie down with you one more time, heavy in my arms, and take root.