the flies lined the bowl, drawn to the

sharp tang of wine 

gripped by thirst

and now  

stillness, without. 

This small and dark crust, dead                      country

 

 

and moving with

sorrow

she goes

to collect flowers from the road side

her dress unzipped and her feet bare against the pavement 

 

 

your milk tastes

sour today, and yesterday it barely had any taste at all

as though you no longer want me to find any   pleasure     in                   consuming                it 

resent me coaxing it from your body

you make me a thief

but            you            see 

I love the way thievery feels 

in the creases