In The Green Sea

A climbing violet bruise belches from the sugar mill smoke stacks
we rut like feral dogs in the black dirt swill rows of raucous stalk
dark mud smearing across your hard rust nipples

parade march of knotted cane boogie woogie on windy breath
a violence in the harvest
a little taste of rotten mulch
drunk on the thick sips of sweet molasses from the open wound of your hungry mouth.

TA