Plagues and Stuff

Always I am rereading you
the way the dark makes the grass
darker and no longer grass...
do you care for the obvious

tragedy, say porn star or shepherd?

I wonder too obviously. I wandered
lonely as a sheepish poetry clod
through nature's bony dictionary
for a number of years.

Poetry is prone to pastoral
diseases. Its hooves, especially.

Then I bellowed.
I bellowed for a few years.
Then I grasped at the word revanchement.
Lastly, I admired the bovine

peace of the stars mowing darkness

over you and over your second head.

I realized my shepherd had gone,

but I slept in his shape in the grass,

unpastoral and warm. I think we

die of a comfortable disease called nature.