They’re haying in October—
mild days of milkweed and fermentation
apples rotting in the grass
mushrooms veiled in the leaves.
Windrows of hay lie waiting
to be baled and that big green tractor
parked overnight at the crest of the field
on a berth of smashed acorn caps
dares you to pass. You can’t
slink away from the gaze, the fake owl
tracking you as you walk
between the ledgerock and the hay
SHOW ME YOUR HOOTERS shouted
in orange font, two nipple-eyes
staring from the John Deere cab
like a manifesto, like a bird of prey
like they want to see yours
now, here, in the open air
and the razed grasses, beneath
the great oak and mottled leaves
the old crows and mad squirrels.
Come on already don’t be a prude
strip off your fleece and tee
and unclasp the girls.
Show the goddamn world
what you were born to do.