GOD OF WHEAT
I slattern bramble and wood and moss and amber and sap and milk and buck every frond and arching stem.
I am god and spokey like wheels on a ribbon hung from a neck of sky.
I am the light of florets ignited, my saffron hunger boils at the heart of every spat, each spike of lightning.
I stain the moon, white with flour, and when I laugh dry spikelets click in my chest where I have no ribs.
I shiv like a mandolin through bone and fissure, belting songs like wheat spumes on wind.
I am fisted handfuls of flag leaves and twelve points of whimsy.
I am smatter of rain in the morning and under-bridge goblins are my dearest disciples.
I grit teeth when I sleep and twittering birds cloy over me, collapsing on wind like prayers and dollar bills on my eyelids.
I am bitter brew torching veiny gullies, leaving glassine pools of spit in my wake.
Sprung, I take shape.
I cut myself from the ground for it is a dwindling thing and I suffer no keepers.
