The farmer’s wife runs outside
into the night-time dry citrus orchard,
naked, shivering in her feverish heat,
and the farmer runs behind her
panting, calling her name,
but is it really hers? Sometimes
the farmer doubts that tag.
In the darkness the crows caw
as if to usher in the morning
that will bring senses to the farmer’s wife.
Tomorrow is Sunday. The market will
sweat beneath the inadequate shades.
The farmer runs into his wife’s flesh.
She shivers, pants, cries. Her name runs far,
beyond the reaches of hearing.