Eight of Swords

You don’t want to be a wise man
How fast the green buds come up

Language of a hungry woman
Speaking to a man about to feed her

Ocean across your chest
Swords tossed across the field
Trees bloom along the road

I touch the ground in front of us
Low thunder in the distance

It’s not enough to fuck this hard
Speak for the wind and rain

My hands fall on my own body
We wait for light to fill the clouds

The sound of our bodies in the grass
Language of a naked woman
Washing a man clean