You are the time beside the mailbox flag when ditch begins to creep from its shoulder and slides into the corrugated pipe–degrees stagnant under the quilt of the road. You are plain and foursquare. You are the dinner bell ringing, thudding past oak trees, the sweaty cattails afloat in civet bones. You, dense as midday dinner the threshers devoured sixty years ago in Black Hawk County. You command the locust to drone, man calling woman to the dirt nest. Singing to the girl who lies in her girl grave, you eye shadow her, bruise her, make her a glitter of green cow spot, a coppery sheen. You smear her over with your elaborate erection, purple folds. You are that tar brush and claw opening her neck, for blood to flow from her mouth to her feet, jaguar with penis, jaws licky red with liver and heart, the bread meats eaten. You offer her to the gravely sky.