the spring moon

But here
a wild-hyacinth stalk is snapped:
the purple buds—half ripe—
show deep purple
where your heel pressed.

this heathen sowing

your body is a hyacinth

Oh, how it buds,
grows within me.
The silent seed
of dead fruit.

It moves upward towards the light.
Thrusts through the blind clay
of my flesh.
Breaking,
inspiring my wooden tongue.