snow-laden field on a foggy midday

1.

When you reared your head I fell all across England,
past the grit haired grandmothers humming horticulture, ripples in the leather-skin weather of their faces,
past the ember specked fireplaces in the windows of an ash haven: London, and the commuters that hang like rain in its taxicab fumes; sewage pipes groan under the trains and hairspray.

I fall past this thinking
only of your grass blade hair
(how it all points up at me
in breathless photosynthesis),

thinking of you only.

2.

I would like the way I fall over you,
thick thighed lady with a bottle of booze
bubbling like your cheeks under your hair,
I would like your lips hanging like wine
tightly on the rims of mine, the rime of your breath
beating against me steady as a swig
of your drink(but in return
you would have just me

a snow-laden field on a foggy midday,
hoarfrost frigid on a teacup brink)