sit next to a bountiful bush
do not touch; do not stare, all of these desires
you cannot claim, because this bush and hairs and
fetish with a ness you cannot have— you
cannot claim or mark this territory.
Let the bush grow and get
hair crawling around its secret treasured opening
while it secretes all of its messiness with
a hungered appetite you would like to spill and
try well over, but just sit there and stare
like a good white mare, and messy by your lonesome stead’.
Spill my good boy,
Spill it well.