I am a stubborn ox dreaming

    of rain as the drover's fingers drum

    around my eyes. But no： the wet

    hum of flies distracted me，

    and now the plow¹ has drifted from

    the line I meant to follow. See

    where the damp leather of the reins²

    has worn the callus on my left

    forefinger³ raw？ Or was it the dry，

    ash handle of my hoe？ I can hear

    the steel head singing as it strikes

    rocky ground， the fresh-turned earth

    swallowing showers of sparks. The tip

    of my tongue goes dry. I touch my lips

    to the soil as I once touched you， here

    and there. A single knot of dirt

    crumbles⁴ slowly in my mouth

    with the taste of sweet butter dripping

    from your thumb. This ground will raise

    a heavy crop. I am the wheat

    that flowed around your waist like water.

    I am that lonely knot of earth.