In This Green-Stained Pasture

by DESPY BOUTRIS

In this green-stained pasture, I lie in the grass,
eyes to the shifting clouds, hair still maned
from sleep. How much I look like something
wild as I stand, plod forward, grazing cows
eyeing me, cautious. By now they know me:
how I twirl in circles till I fall. The spinning
sky, spiralized trees.
And why does the turning insist on leaving me
behind? Leaves me here alone
with some imaginary lover, eyes
like gem-stones, nimble fingers tying
my untied shoe. Just say my name and I’ll strip
myself bare you a bouquet of clovers.
Just say the word and I’ll stop spinning,
spinning, watch you blur
into something solid I can hold.